“You okay?” he whispered.
She turned her head, dazed.
“Pretty sure you have ruined me for all future sex.”
Her voice was hoarse, half-laugh, half-confession. She wasn’t sure whether to high-five herself or call an exorcist.
He smiled. “Good.”
She didn’t speak again, because words weren’t built for whatever that was. There was only the afterglow and the faint scent of fire and sin.
And for the first time in a long, long time,Blair didn’t feel like she’d been used.
She felt chosen. Not in spite of her mess, her chaos, her moods, but because of them. Like the universe finally looked her way and said, This is it.
5
It’s Not Love, It’s Just a Trauma Response™
Blair woke to the smell of something sinful. Not sex, though, no, it was French toast.
She sat up slowly, sore in places she didn’t know existed, her sheets twisted around her like tornado wreckage. Her thighs ached, her hips protested. Her hair probably looked like it had been through an exorcism.
She blinked, and in her kitchen, there was a man at her stove, shirtless, and humming.
“Ashar?” she croaked.
He looked over his shoulder, grinning like the devil he was. “Morning, sunshine.”
She stared. “So, you’re still here.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I kind of thought I hallucinated you into orgasm-induced cardiac arrest.”
Ashar flipped a piece of French toast. “I told you. I stay until you’re fulfilled.”
“Pretty sure I hit that about five times last night. I mean, thatthing you did? Like, how does one top that?”
He smirked. “Not the kind of fulfillment I meant. And wait until the next time. I’ll show you exactly how.”
She laughed a little too loudly. “Anyway, you’ll vanish in two days, so who cares, right?”
He didn’t laugh. Instead, his hand reached out, gently wrapping around her wrist before she could grab her coffee again.
“Stay,” he said, not commanding, he was simply asking.
“Don’t run from this one.”
She stilled, every nerve on edge. Flight mode always felt safer than hope.
Her breath caught. Her stomach twisted like it remembered too many goodbyes. She grabbed her phone like it could deflect the weight of his voice.
But his voice didn’t sound like danger. It sounded like it could be home, if she let it.
She groaned and flopped back onto the pillow like it owed her money. Then grabbed her phone.
She quickly FaceTimed Maya.
