Cara’s smile falls. Slowly, deliberately, she brings her hand to my face, running the pads of her fingers over my eyebrows, down the bridge of my nose, and to my beard. “What made you grow this?”
“I just wanted a change. It’s way easier than shaving.” I don’t tell her that I did it to make myself look more mature. That I agonized over it for weeks, hoping it would grow in thick. Not an unfounded worry since I had fucking peach fuzz until I was twenty-five.
She hums, stroking over the hair. This is why I invested way too much money into beard products. If I ever had the chance to get Cara’s hands on me, I wanted it to be soft. I wanted her to like touching me. Thank fuck it worked.
She’s tracing the line of my jaw, eyes sleepy, and I’m so fucking hard for her it hurts. This level of want is disorienting. The room is spinning, and the only thing keeping me from breaking is her touch. Only when I feel like I’m on fire do I cover her hand with mine. “I can’t...you have to stop.” I’m about to crash over that edge of self-control, and that would be an epic mistake with her. She’s not ready for more with me, and I can’t risk pushing her. I’m playing the long game, and my body needs to get on board.
She withdraws, her whole body pulling away from me, giving me some relief. I bury my head in my pillow, every muscle in my body tense as I try to will my dick to behave. It’s useless. There’s no way it’s going to calm down with Cara in this bed. Every shift and wiggle is making me tenser. Finally, she settles, and with a lot of deep breathing, I get myself a little under control. Lifting my head from the pillow, I turn to her.
She’s curled away from me on the edge of the bed, covers pulled up to her nose. A tiny sniffle, quiet, but unmistakable, does what minutes of breathing couldn’t. My cock deflates like a popped balloon. “Cara. Are you okay?”
She chokes out a hard laugh. “Sure. Totally fine.”
She doesn’t sound fine. She sounds like she’s crying. Have I fucked up again? “You don’t sound okay, Cara. If I did or said something, I’m really sorry.” She’s a flurry of movement, getting tangled in the blankets, grunting and muttering to herself until she finally throws them at me. Sitting up in bed, cheeks flushed, eyes fiery, round, creamy shoulders bare except for the tiny straps of her nightgown, she’s everything I’ve ever wanted in one perfect package.
“Enough with the apologies, Declan. I’m so over it,” she snaps. She doesn’t look over it. She looks ready to gut me.
“I’m sorry I...”
She growls at me, tipping towards me, planting her hands on the mattress between us. The weight of her breasts pushes into the cups of the nightgown, exposing the shadowed valley between them. “Stop fucking apologizing! It feels like that’s all you do.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.” I also have no idea where to look. I want to dive between her breasts. I want the right to lick and suck. I want to leave my mark on her.
She exhales a sigh, sitting back on her heels. She doesn’t look angry anymore, but I think I’d take the anger over the lost look on her face. “I guess that’s the problem, Dec. It feels like you’re mentally rehearsing every word before you say a damn thing. It’s like trying to get to know you through bulletproof glass. Like you’re on the defensive with me.” She reaches out, pulling her pillow to her chest, eyes on the bed between us. “Why is there a supposed to? Why don’t you just speak?”
I straighten the pile of covers on me as I ponder her words. “I guess this feels like a dance I don’t know all the steps to.”
She frowns. “What do you mean? What feels like a dance?”
“Figuring out what I should and shouldn’t say. I don’t want to say something that upsets you or makes you change your mind about giving me a chance. And I really don’t want to scare you or push you.”
She props her chin on the top of her pillow. “There’s no script for this, Declan. And if you keep acting like there is, we’re going to be doomed.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re hiding.”
I shift uncomfortably, her words hitting me hard. “I’m not hiding exactly.”
“Then what do you call it?”
“I’m just trying to be...better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than me! I don’t want to be that loser anymore. I need to figure out how to be smoother.”
“Smoother?” she echoes, frowning. “You want to be smoother?” Her fingers loosen, letting the pillow droop in her lap.
“Yeah. More like the kind of guy you’re used to.”
Her eyes widen briefly, then flash in a way that makes me drop my hands to protect my junk. Leaving me completely defenseless as she rises up and starts beating me with her pillow. “Stop. Being. So. Stupid,” she yells between hits. She’s got some fucking stamina, and her hits are no joke. I wonder if she’s had a lot of practice. And now I’m thinking about college-age Cara and pillow fights, and I’m hard as a fucking rock again. She doesn’t seem like she’s in any mood to stop, but she’s getting really close to the edge of the bed, and I don’t want her falling over.
I dive under her next strike, yanking her to me. Rolling us to tuck her under me. The pillow drops from her hands as she stares up at me in shock. Not questioning my impulse, not second-guessing myself, I wiggle until I’ve made a spot for myself, right between her legs, keeping my hips away from her core. I pull my arms from under her, taking her hands in mine and pressing them into the bed. She seems to shake herself out of her daze, the attitude screaming back.
“You’re dumb.”
The fire in her eyes and her heaving chest are seriously distracting. “Clearly. Can you spell it out for me? Use little words.”
