“You’ve been watching me sleep for several minutes and now you’re smiling maniacally. Should I be concerned?”
Giggling, I bury my head in his shoulder, only slightly embarrassed to be caught ogling him. “Good morning,” I murmur, taking a whiff of the spicy, masculine scent of his body wash on his skin.
“Good morning to you.” He brushes my hair back and kisses my forehead. “How did you sleep?”
“Really good,” I confess. I leave at that rather than telling him that I seem to always sleep well when we’re together.
He smiles down at me, then places a trail of kisses along my shoulder.
The last few kisses linger, and suddenly I’m wide awake and ready to go. I’m beyond tempted to turn into him and chase the pleasure I’m all but guaranteed to find if things go farther. But my anxiety pumps the brakes and questions storm my mind, clouding my libido.
“Alaric?” I run my red-painted nails through the short hair at his nape.
He smooths his hand down the length of my spine and pulls me closer. “Yes, angel?”
I capture his hand and lift it to my chest, hoping like hell I’m not about to ruin this moment with my next words.
“What are we doing?”
With a hum, he examines my face. “We’re just waking up. And possibly gearing up to make each other feel good?” He traces two fingers along my sternum, marking a languid trail between my breasts.
Though I don’t think he’s being intentionally obtuse, now that I’ve started down this line of thinking, I can’t let it go.
Craning back to put a bit of space between us, I force myself to hold his gaze. Despite the inkling of shame inside me threatening to swirl into a flurry of emotions, I hold my nerve. I need him to spell this out for me. I have to be sure. I’ve made too many assumptions and allowed myself to read too deeply into so many half-baked situationships in the past; I owe it to myself to get the clarity I need.
“I’m struggling right now. I need you to be direct with me,” I say. “I don’t want to misread this or assume I know what you want or what the last few days have meant. So I’m going to ask again… what are we doing?”
“I—I don’t know, exactly,” he confesses, holding my attention. “We can’t date. Not openly…”
“Okay.” Quickly, I compartmentalize my disappointment, pushing down the premature heartache that comes with this revelation. “So the other morning, and again last night, that was just?—”
He silences me with a finger to my lips. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence.”
I snap my mouth shut, hope floating through me once more.
“This isn’tjustanything. This weekend wasn’t a one-time deal or a mistake. Banish any doubts along those lines from your mind. Expediently.”
“Expediently?” I tease, peeking up at him through my lashes.
“I’m serious,” he urges. “I’m also being honest. I don’t know how to label this. We can’t date in the traditional sense. I could never have a public relationship with a person who worked under me at Granata. But I want to be with you.”
“So this wasn’t just a one-time thing?” I confirm.
His scowl deepens, causing my confidence to soar.
“It most certainly was not. But it’s critical that this,” he looks between our naked bodies, “stays between us, which feels like a dreadful request and entirely unfair to you.”
I press my lips together, considering his words. “I’m okay with keeping things quiet,” I tell him. “Or silent, if necessary. I don’t need anyone to know about us, especially given my most recent relationship…”
“You shouldn’t be okay with being someone’s secret,” he grouses.
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “But that’s what I am.”
And I really am used to it. I’m used to only getting scraps of time and attention from the people I date. I’m not the easiest person to deal with, so most usually prefer me in small doses.
While no one from the Even Better Eleven has ever made me feel like I have to shrink myself down or mask all the time to be accepted, romantic partners are a different story.
My poor perception of myself was reinforced every day Luca and I were together. The two years I wasted on him were a humiliating ritual, every day spent trying to be only the most palatable version of myself.
