And yet, I find myself falling for him a little harder with that confession.
24
Emery
My eyes flutter openas the mattress shifts. For a second, I think I’m still dreaming because Hayes is climbing back into bed wearing nothing more than his boxer briefs. His muscles flex with every movement.
He’s mesmerizing.
Downright sinful.
I glance at the clock, realizing I must have drifted off to sleep. The last thing I remember was Hayes telling me a story about his first motorcycle while holding out his hand so Charlie could play with his rings. Now, my arms are empty.
“I put her in her crib,” he says when I look around for Charlie. “She finally fell back asleep.”
My arms are stiff as I stretch them out. “Sorry if I fell asleep in the middle of your story.”
He smiles. “It was your story, so you didn’t offend me.”
“I fell asleepmid-sentence?”
“Mid-word.”
“Wonderful.” I laugh, and Hayes smiles wider.
He settles beneath the blanket, facing me. There’s a cold gap between us. A foot of space that might as well be a canyon with how far apart he feels. My fingers rest on the mattress between us.
Moments ago, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Now, I can’t take them off him.
Hayes and I have been sharing a bed since the night we got married, but we’ve yet to cross a certain line. After today, we really shouldn’t. Soon, I’ll be forced to do something terrible to ensure our daughter’s safety.
My heart already breaks thinking of what’s to come.
His hand reaches for mine, lacing our fingers together, and I lie to myself in this moment. I hold onto what we are and pretend nothing is going to change. In another version of us, maybe my family and his club wouldn’t be at war. We’d be allowed to keep this.
I want to go back to New Year’s when we were just two single people having fun. Possibilities were endless. Dreams were intact.
Clinging to that night, I shove everything else aside and only focus on this. On his calloused palms. On the devotion in his eyes.
My thumb grazes the back of his hand, and I dare to keep going. I trail my fingers up his forearm, exploring his tattoos. I take in the inches of my husband’s skin. He’s a stranger in many ways, and yet, when I look into his eyes, I’ve never known anyone as deeply as I know Hayes.
I graze my hand up over his shoulder, tracing down his side. His inked arms are beautifully chaotic. A mess of demons and skulls and poker chips. There are dice on his forearms. But at his wrist is a hand of cards that’s fresher than the rest.
It’s familiar.
My eyebrows pinch as I trace over the ink until my eyes snap to his. “This is the hand the slot machine dealt the night we met. The first game you lost.”
I offered him a kiss for a single win, but it was a losing hand—this hand.
“I got this inked a couple of weeks after we met,” he admits.
“Why would you get a losing hand tattooed on yourself?”
Hayes cups my jaw. His thumb grazes my freckles, sending a rush of goose bumps down my arms. “It wasn’t a losing hand. It gave me more time with you.”
“You really thought of it like that?”
“Of course. It didn’t matter what the cards said so long as I got more of this.” A beautiful smirk climbs his face.
