But I keep feeling her delicate touch as she carefully washed the blood off my face. A few tendrils had escaped her braid, and her cheeks were so pink from the wind, but her hands were warm and tender. She didn’t flinch from the violence—or the result. With every stroke of her fingers, I found myself wishing she wouldn’t stop. I remember the way she sat in my lap astride the horse. She was so angry, yet so determined. The memory of it sends a flare of desire through my belly, and my trousers go a bit snug.
