Still my gaze keeps darting to his crotch. I can’t ignore its size. And how it felt when he pressed up against me.
There’s something about seeing him not wearing much, in his bedroom, which makes my nipples peak and my toes curl.
Man’s recovering from a PTSD induced nightmare, and all I want is to jump him. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come in.
"Umm…I’m going to leave.”
I turn to leave, but he calls out, "No stay. Just let me… Just wait a minute, please."
He takes me in from head to toe, scanning to make sure I’m okay. Then he walks toward me and brushes past me. His fingertips twitch. Like he wants to reach for me, but he's holding back.
His eyes communicate concern and lingering guilt. He’s remembering the last time I woke him up from a nightmare, and he lost control and choked me.
Then he’s past me and walking to the bathroom.
I try not to notice his tight, fit arse, then give in and watch him prowl toward the en suite.
"I can feel you staring," he says mildly.
I flush and look around the room and decide to smooth out the crumpled bedding. By the time I’m done, he emerges wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that outlines his pecs and his abs.
Damn, that only makes him hotter.
He arches an eyebrow at the newly made bed but doesn’t sayanything. He slides under the covers, then pats the empty space on the other side.
"You want me to get in?"
"If you want." He looks at me seriously. "It’s only so I can get some sleep.”
His tone is earnest, and his expression is open. Vulnerable. My heart melts. My stomach flutters. I want to stay with him. Reassure him.
I want to take care of him, so he doesn’t get those nightmares again, and instead, gets a good night’s sleep.
Besides, he asked me to. We’ll only sleep together without actually 'sleeping' together. It’s going to be very innocent.
I shove aside any doubts I have, walk around, and slide under the covers, the expanse of the bed between us.
“The last mission I undertook before I left the Marines—" He stops. Swallows.
I wait. I don't push. Just…wait.
"We were stranded. Enemy territory. My team and I." His voice is rough. Distant. Like he's somewhere else entirely. "We fought them off for three days. Three nights."
I turn onto my side to face him.
He's on his back. One arm bent behind his head. Staring at the ceiling like the answers are written there in invisible ink. His other hand taps out a rhythm of three across his chest, syncing with his heartbeat.
His inner tension is palpable. I sense his emotions spiraling. Sense he’s not completely over the effects of the nightmare yet.
"My team died." The words come out flat. Emotionless. Which somehow makes them worse. "One by one. Before my eyes. I watched them—" He stops.
His chest heaves.
"I was the last one left."
My heart thuds against my rib cage. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed an anchor.
I want to reach for him. Touch him. Do something to ease whatever he's reliving right now.
