The Wedding Band by Cara Connelly

grew slowly this time, giving her space to think about what she’d said. She felt the flush start at her nethers and rise like the tide to her cheeks, firing her skin all the way.
    Still, she pretended not to catch on. “I’ve only got two dresses with me. I don’t need you dripping on them.”
    His smile widened. He rose.
    With both of them barefoot, he had eight inches on her. She sidestepped—­not a retreat, just a change of position—­and Tri let out a blood-­curdling squeal.
    â€œOh God, oh no.” Chris dropped to her knees, patting the small body, terrified she’d paralyzed him.
    He rolled over to give her his belly.
    Laughing, Kota squatted and scratched Tri’s fun spot. “He’s a drama queen. Any excuse.”
    She sat back on her heels. “The men around here.”
    â€œLovable, right?”
    â€œNot the word I was thinking of.” Cy chose that moment to bump her with his socket. “More like needy,” she said, rubbing his gnarled head.
    â€œWe’re easy. Scratch us in the right place and we’ll follow you anywhere.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Speaking of following me, an earless black cat snuck into my room and tried to hex me.”
    â€œThat’d be Van Gogh. He lost his ears somewhere.”
    â€œHe wasn’t born that way?”
    â€œNope.” Kota dropped down cross-­legged, putting everything on display. She buried her face in Cy’s neck. Any port in a storm.
    â€œVan Gogh had a tough life,” Kota said. “He was next up for the needle when I got the call.”
    â€œYour friend at the shelter again?”
    â€œMmm-­hmm. Black cats don’t get adopted too often. Earless black cats, never.”
    â€œAnd now he’s in paradise.”
    â€œShows you never know from one day to the next.”
    So true. Twenty-­four hours ago, Chris had no idea she’d wind up here on Kota’s island.
    â€œAre there more?” she asked. More like her and Van Gogh. More refugees.
    â€œEight cats, last I counted. Probably under the porch.” He knocked on the floor. “They’ll come around when they get used to you.”
    â€œAnd the horses?”
    â€œStarving to death on a farm outside Sacramento.”
    â€œHow’d you get them here?”
    â€œOn a ship.”
    â€œI see.” But she didn’t, not really. It seemed a soft heart beat beneath those iron pecs. Not what she’d expected.
    His body wasn’t what she’d expected either. He was big, oh yes, but not bulky like a juiced-­up bodybuilder. Defined, God yes, but not cut to shreds like a cartoon character.
    His body, in all its glory, looked one hundred percent authentic, like it was built by beef and hard work, and he wore it like he owned it, not like a costume he put on for the camera.
    It was who he was. It suited him down to the ground.
    And she wanted to touch it. Just a squeeze here and there.
    And yes, there too.
    As if he read her mind, he leaned back on his hands, a devastating move that contracted his abs, flexed those pecs, and displayed his arms at a new and interesting angle. She could study them all day and never get bored.
    Tempting fate, she flicked a glance at his face. Indigo eyes caught hers and held fast.
    He wasn’t laughing now.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said. “Touch me.”
    She licked her lips. “Pfft. Get over yourself.”
    â€œThen I’ll touch you.” His gaze was steady, intense. He reached out and traced a fingertip up the back of her arm.
    She should stop him. Immediately.
    She moved her arm.
    Closer to him.
    Over her shoulder he skimmed, then down the front of her arm, adding fingers along the way.
    In the crook of her elbow, he drew a circle with the pad of his thumb, a barely-­there touch, lighter than a breeze, warmer than the sun. Sensual as sin.
    She held herself still, afraid to move. Afraid he’d keep touching