I risk a glance back at him.
He’s looking down. There’s a tension in his shoulders and his forearms. His breathing is measured but deep.
His gaze is riveted to my ass. To watching himself touch me.
I feel like I’m going to combust. If he keeps doing this, if his hands drift even slightly inward, if somehow he finds out how wet he’s made me just with his hands on my legs and the low even cadence of his voice…
There’s no way this won’t rapidly spiral out of both of our control.
I start to prop myself up on my elbows.
“Stay still,” he says. It comes out almost like a growl, the instructional tone entirely gone.
Another bolt of heat pulses straight through me.
I put my head back on the pillow and let out a helpless sigh. “Yes, sir.”
His fingertips flex on my ass. Then slowly his fingers spread outward and down, following the curve of my glute toward my inner thigh. He is so close, so searingly close to touching methere, the edge of his finger nearly brushing against my pussy lips.
I know how wet I am and if he moves even a fraction of an inch further he’s going to know it too.
I tense involuntarily. Every muscle in my body going rigid at once, my thighs pressing together, my whole body locking up in a panic of pure mortification.
He stops.
His hands lift off me completely.
I hear his breath come out in one controlled exhale. Feel him shift his weight back. Away.
The loss of his touch feels more than physical. It feels like he’s wrenching himself away from me emotionally, too, like the cord of intimacy we’d been knitting between us is suddenly torn in two.
He’s sitting back on his heels, his forearms resting on hisknees, looking at me with those dark green eyes in the firelight. His jaw is still tight. His chest is still rising and falling with that deliberate measured breathing.
A log in the fire pops.
“That should help,” he says finally.
His voice is even. Completely, infuriatingly even. Like nothing happened. Like his hands weren’t just on my body, like the tension that felt thick enough to slice with a machete never existed at all.
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he adds, “We should both get some sleep now.”
He gets to his feet, facing away from me and holding himself with a straight spine. Meanwhile I’m a melted puddle of my former self, every nerve ending still alight with his touch, still longing for it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Does he think I tensed because I didn’t want him to touch me there?
Does he think I flinched away from him?
I try to think of some way to call him back to me that doesn’t sound pathetic and desperate, but it seems my brain as well as my body has turned to jelly, and I’ve got nothing.
There’s no version of the truth I can tell him right now that doesn’t blow everything up.
It’s for the best,I tell myself, but the words feel more painful than ever.
I drop my eyes. Shift position so my knees are curled up under me, almost a protective position. I pull a blanket over myself, staring into the fire. Lucky rises up from her bed and comes to me, putting her chin on the cushion beside me. She doesn’t ask for anything, just stays there. I scratch behind her ears and try not to feel sorry for myself.
A fake marriage with no complications. Who was I kidding?
