I am thinking about Brianna.
The guilt is there, heavy and waiting.
But there is also this.
His body around mine. His breath on my skin. The low ache between my thighs where he made me his and then held me afterward like I mattered beyond the heat of it.
Forever, he said.
Insane man.
Worse, some ruined, reckless part of me believed him.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him.
The arm around my waist tightens.
A low rumble vibrates against my shoulder. “Where you going?”
My heart jumps.
“Nowhere,” I whisper.
“Good.”
His voice is rough with sleep, deeper than earlier, scraped raw around the edges. It slides right through me.
I turn my head enough to see him.
Bad idea.
Terrible.
He looks unfair in the red motel light. Hair mussed. Jaw dark with stubble. Eyes half-open and still somehow sharp enough to pin me in place. His scarred chest is bare above the blanket, one arm under his head, the other still banded around me.
“You sleep like a guard dog,” I whisper.
“You wake up like trouble.”
“I woke up very respectfully.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Liar.”
My pulse stumbles.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His hand spreads over my stomach, fingers flexing once, just enough to remind me how big he is. How strong. How careful he was with all that strength.
I should say something clever.
I have built an entire personality around saying something clever.
Unfortunately, my brain is currently a puddle wearing boots.
“Are you hurting?” he asks.
