Page 198 of Sorrow & Strangers

“I know we made an agreement, but⁠—”

“Stranger . . .”

He huffs. “Nothing sexual? You’re sure?” he asks, making no move to release me.

“We shouldn’t. Not now. Not yet.”

Everything is so fucking confusing. My mind is a mess, and adding orgasms given to me by this man into the mix certainly will not help, because deep down, I know he is going to shatter my world completely. I know my feelings are all over the place. I went from trying with everything I am to hate him, to blaming him for everything that happened last year, to giving in to the feelings I’ve been masking for longer than I’d like to admit. Being without the lies is so incredibly liberating, but I have no map for this, and I need a moment to figure out what it all means.

He drags his thumb along my hip, making me shiver, and I feel his cock twitch against me. I know he’s struggling. So am I, but I know this is the right call. Especially considering I’m not sure how things are going to be when we return to Avalon. Perhaps this is simply a ceasefire while we’re here. Who knows what will happen once we are back amid the stressors of everyday life?

I ease my nails out of his chest, and I am happy when I see I was correct about the angry crescent shapes left there. He holds me to him, his eyes roaming over my face before he releases me and rolls to his back, dramatically draping his arm over his eyes.

“Fuck,” he growls, and I try to avoid looking at where his cock is tenting the sheets, but I do take a minute to appreciate the muscles of his chest and abs.

Fuck is right.

I climb out of bed and walk to the bathroom, able to feel the heat of his eyes on me.

“Want some company?” he asks, desire lacing the roughness of his voice.

“What did we just talk about?” I ask, glancing at him over my shoulder.

“What if there are unknown dangers in there? Who will protect you?”

“Unknown dangers in the bathroom of your five-star suite in the most exclusive resort this side of Avalon?”

He shrugs. “You never know.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but if I call out the word . . . peony, that’s your sign that I’m in mortal danger,” I say, my lips tugging upward.

“I’ll be listening, princess,” he says, a mischievous smile in his dark eyes.

I shower alone, but I can practically feel his energy vibrating through the wall, the desire swirling through it, nearly driving me wild. More than once, I feel the word tingling on the tip of my tongue, begging to be spoken, but I know I can’t. I know we wouldn’t be able to be naked and wet in the shower and not give in to what we both need. And it is a need at this point.

I wrap a big, fluffy towel around my body and leave the bathroom. As suspected, he is pacing in the room, his gray sweatpants hanging tantalizingly low around his hips. The second I step back into the room, his eyes meet mine, and they’re even darker than before.

“I’ll need to go back to my room,” I say.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t have my clothes here.”

“I asked the concierge to bring your case here while we were out last night,” he says, nodding toward the closet.

I quirk a brow and step into the small room beside the bathroom. It is full of clothes that aren’t quite familiar, thanks to Alice’s packing, but they are ones I saw yesterday as I rooted through my bags, looking for my bathing suit.

He leans in the doorway, watching me, but I don’t care. I enjoy the feeling of his eyes on me as I choose a pair of denim shorts and a cute sage-green bralette with a crocheted design. His gaze roams over me hungrily as I drop the towel and start to get dressed. I see the muscles in his abdomen clench, and his hands curl into fists, but he stays where he is.

“Are you going to get dressed?” I ask, looking at him still just in his sweatpants. Not that he doesn’t look mouthwateringly delicious like this, but this is for my eyes only.

He narrows his eyes and crooks his finger at me. I walk to him, and the second I’m within arm’s reach, he pulls me against him.

“You need a shirt,” he growls, low and possessive.

“I’m wearing one,” I say with a small frown.

He slides his hand over my bare back and brushes his thumb along the band of the bralette. “This is not a shirt.”