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Long enough for my seemingly never-ending tears to eventually dry up.
More than long enough for exhaustion to slam through me like a freight train.
I collapse against him, my body melting into his so completely that for the first time in my life, I’m not sure where I leave off and he begins.
It’s hot and sticky despite the air-conditioning and eventually I expect him to push me off his lap—or at least to complain. Instead he climbs to his feet with me still clutched in his arms. I’m a little drowsy and a lot wrung out by this point, so I don’t complain. Don’t tell him I’m too heavy or that I can walk or that he doesn’t have to do this.
Instead I cling to him—arms wrapped around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist—as he carries me up to my room.
I’m pretty much a control freak at the best of times, and I should be nervous as hell that he’s carrying me. Not that I think he’s going to drop me, because I don’t—the arms wrapped around me are made of steel, as is the chest I’m currently pressed so tightly against. But still, handing over the reins to him like this, letting him take care of me when I’ve taken care of myself for so, so long, should feel strange. Uncomfortable. I don’t even like taking help from Chloe and we’ve been best friends since freshman year of college.
I’m not nervous, though, and I’m not uncomfortable. In fact, it feels good to let him take care of me. Feels good to give up that responsibility, even if for just a little while.
When we get to my room, he crosses to the unmade bed and settles me against the cool sheets. Immediately I feel bereft, cold, and I refuse to let go, my arms still wrapped around him like a limpet.
“Don’t leave me,” I murmur, the words barely audible as my lips are pressed against the stubble on his cut-glass jaw.
“I won’t,” he soothes, even as he untangles himself from my octopus clutches. “I’ll be right back.”
It’s all the reassurance I need, and I fall back against the bed, my eyes drifting closed practically as soon as my head hits the pillow. I’m pretty out of it now, only vaguely aware of Miles walking across the room, and then of water running in the bathroom.
But when he comes back and strokes a cool cloth over my hot, tearstained cheeks, I shudder at the first touch of his fingers against my skin. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells me softly. “I promise you, I’m going to make sure everything’s okay.”
I nod, and although I don’t believe him—not really—the words are as comforting as the cloth. I reach for him, tangling my fingers with those on his free hand even as I curl myself around his arm.
“Please,” I say, pressing kisses to the back of his hand. “Stay. Just for tonight. Please, just stay.”
He doesn’t say anything at first and panic starts to race through me, destroying the sweet lassitude that has taken me over in the last few minutes. “Please,” I repeat again, my free hand sweeping along his thigh and over his already half-hard cock.
I pause, squeeze a little, reveling in the sudden sound of a harshly drawn breath in the nearly silent room. I’m exhausted, totally and utterly worn out, and I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. So if sex is what will keep him here…I’m game. Because no matter how worn out I am, fucking Miles Girard will never be a hardship.
He groans a little, then pulls away and I whimper. I actually whimper, as I reach for him again.
“It’s okay,” he tells me again, his voice a deep rumble/growl that is somehow both comforting and sexy as hell. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t make any move to touch me, but the reassurance in his voice is enough to have me relaxing.
There’s a soft rustle—clothes hitting the floor, and then he’s leaning over me. Grabbing my hand and giving a sharp tug that has me spinning onto my side before I even know what’s happening.
“Wha—”
“Ssssh,” he says again, stroking one callused hand down my arm, my hip, the side of my thigh. “I’ve got you.”
The bed sags just a little as he climbs on next to me. And then he’s there, his long, lithe body resting against mine as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me even closer.
My back is to his front now, and I can feel him everywhere.
His hard, chiseled chest pressed against my back, with only the thin cotton of my tank top separating my skin from his.
His hips pressed against my ass, the long, heavy weight of his cock pressing insistently at me.
His heavily muscled arm wrapped around me, holding me close. Sheltering me. Making me feel calm and safe and settled in a way I almost never feel, even when disaster isn’t all around me.
It’s that feeling that turns me on when I thought I was too exhausted to feel anything else. That feeling that has my nipples peaking and my breath catching in my throat even as I wiggle my hips against him.
He groans deep in his throat, then shifts a little so that his suddenly much harder cock is actually pressed wher
e it will do some good. But then his hand is on my waist, stilling me—stilling both of us—and he’s whispering, “Go to sleep, Tori.”
