Make Me Forget - Page 57

“Harper, honey. Wake up.”

“He’s got a knife!”

He started when she jerked in his hold at the same time she shrieked. Suddenly, her aquamarine eyes were wide-open, and she was staring straight at him. It only took Jacob a split second to realize she wasn’t seeing him, though.

“Harper, it’s me. Jacob Latimer. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.” He cupped her jaw. “Do you hear me?” he demanded loudly, intent on penetrating the fog of her nightmare.

Too slowly for his comfort, the fear and desperation faded from her expression. He caressed her cheek and leaned down to brush his lips over her temple and then her eyebrow.

“It’s all right. You were having a nightmare.”

“Jacob?” she muttered thickly.

He lifted his head to peer at her face. “You okay?” he murmured, smoothing the tendrils of her hair away from her ear and damp neck.

She glanced around the room, seeming to gain her bearings.

“I’m sorry. Did I yell?”

He nodded, studying her face closely. She seemed okay now, but confused. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I . . .” She looked up at him, her blue-green eyes reminding him of pure, untainted pools, when only moments before, primal fear had swum in their depths. “I don’t remember.”

How could the terror he’d witnessed have vanished so quickly? His stroking fingers paused. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry I woke you. I probably should get up, anyway. It’ll be dawn soon, won’t it?” she asked, rolling her head on the pillow and squinting to see the time on a nearby clock. He used his hold on her jaw to tilt her face back in his direction.

“You said something about a knife.”

She stared at him blankly. “A knife?”

He nodded, searching her expression.

“That’s weird. I can’t remember what I was dreaming. But—”

“What?” he asked, when she cut herself off.

She shook her head. Her cheeks flushed a light pink.

“I guess it makes sense. I used to have a fear. About knives.”

“A fear?”

“Yeah, a phobia actually,” she muttered, her discomfort clear now.

“You mean you got anxious around knives?”

“More than anxious,” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact with him. “I couldn’t be around them. I’d panic. It was one of many phobias I had when I was a teenager. I was a mess, if you want to know the truth.”

“I do.”

She blinked and looked at him, probably startled by his firm, quick reply.

“No. You don’t, actually,” she assured thickly. She started to sit up, clutching the sheet over her breasts. He moved back reluctantly to give her room. “Don’t worry,” she said, leaning up on one bent elbow and finger-combing her long hair back behind her shoulders. “I don’t have any phobias anymore . . . or panic attacks.”

“How come?”

“My dad.”

Tags: Beth Kery Erotic
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