Oh.
Of course. She’s tired. I kick myself internally.
Before we left the motel, I asked her if she was good as well and she said yes. But I was afraid I was too rough. Except Marlow assured me that I wasn’t that rough—at least not more than she likes—and that she had fun.
But something about the way she said she ‘had fun’ left a sour taste in my mouth. It sounded so nonchalant, like what we shared in the motel room was a casual, one-time thing.
She’s sitting right next to me, except she feels so far away. I hate it and I don’t know how to reach her. It’s like she’s erected a protective barrier around herself.
But why? Did I do something wrong? Why is she pulling away from me?
I thought we were on the same page. That there’s no turning back after we crossed a line. I want to be with her. Forever.
Doesn’t she want to be with me too?
I rub a palm over my chest to ease the unexpected ache there. I don’t consider myself an insecure man, but I’ve been out of the dating game for years and maybe I’m not doing a good job at picking up the cues. Maybe now that we scratched the itch, Marlow’s got me out of her system and she’s done.
But I’m not done.
There’s no getting her out of my system.
I look over at her and my knuckles clench. She’s like a statue, leaning against the window, and sitting far, far away from me. Like she needs this distance.
Meanwhile all I want to do is erase the distance, grab her, and kiss her.
Fuck.
I want the Marlow from the motel back. The one who gave into me sweetly over and over again. The one who dug her fingers into my skin and kissed my mouth like she never wanted to be separated from me.
I try in vain to reach her by saying, “Will you sleep in my room tonight?”
Her head whips in my direction, shocked. “What?”
I swallow, anxious, and repeat, “Will you sleep in my room tonight?”
She’s staring at me like I’m an enigma. Eventually, she slowly shakes her head. “No.” That singular word drives into my chestlike a knife. “I-I can’t. I’m not much of a cuddler.” An awkward laugh escapes her. “Sorry.”
Not much of a cuddler? After three rounds of sex, she clung to me like she wanted to sink inside of me and live there. She practically purred like a kitten when I ran my fingers through her hair and over her body.
But I don’t say any of that, biting my tongue.
I’m confused and hurt.
Maybe tonight was too much for her. Maybe she needs time to compute her feelings and thoughts on us being more.
I blow out a breath.
Okay, I can give her time. She’s not going anywhere. In the morning, we can talk about this over coffee and breakfast. I’ll make her the pancakes she likes with extra sprinkles and whip cream. And hell, if I have to beg her to be my girlfriend—to show her that I’ll treat her like a princess, I will.
I’m not above getting down on my knees for this woman.
I want her to have all the good things life has to offer.
And I want to offer them to her.
So when I pull into my driveway and help Marlow out of my truck, I swear to myself that I’ll do everything in my power to make her mine.
* * *
