Page 110 of Safe Place

MICAH

She’s curled up beside me, so close our thighs are touching. Her head leans softly against my shoulder, the sleeves of her striped pajama top brushing against my arm as she adjusts the blanket. On screen, someone is delivering a dramatic monologue, but I don’t have a clue what he’s saying.

Because all I can focus on is her.

Or more specifically, the way her hand just landed on my thigh. Close. Too close to the growing tent in my pants I’m desperately trying to ignore.

I try to breathe through it. Be good. Be patient. She’s been through enough today.

But then she stirs again, fingers lightly grazing higher, whether she realizes it or not. I glance down. She definitely realizes.

She looks up at me with those round eyes—wide and warm and just a little mischievous—and I swear they could undo me with a single glance. Her soft brown hair falls just beneath her chin, slightly tousled from the way she’s been curled up against me.

“You’re not paying attention to the movie at all, are you?” she asks, her voice sweet and teasing.

I huff a laugh, voice low. “I wouldn’t even be able to tell you the name of a single character. Besides Tiffany, of course.”

“There’s no one named Tiffany,” she laughs before kissing me—soft and sweet, then deeper. Her hands slide up my shirt, and her fingers brush my bare skin.

Okay. That’s a green light.

I kiss her back, pulling her into my lap so she’s straddling me, one hand sliding behind her neck, the other moving to unfasten the buttons of her pajama top. She lets me. No hesitation—just her trust.

She looks up at me, flushed and kiss-bitten, her shiny eyes blinking up at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Her chest rises and falls, and I lean in to kiss along her jaw, then down her neck. Her skin is so soft it makes my chest ache. I trail kisses down to her chest, slide her pajama top open, and close my mouth around one perfect breast, sucking slowly, gently.

She gasps, her back arching and fingers threading into my hair.

My hand starts to move downward, tugging at the waistband of her pajama pants⁠⁠—

Ding. The elevator.

I freeze. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, immediately helping her back down beside me.

I smooth her hair with quick fingers, trying to make her look a little less like she just got wrecked. Doesn’t help. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks are flushed, and her soft brown hair is a little mussed around her face. She looks so fucking good it’s painful.

The elevator doors slide open. I don’t even need to look to know who it is.

“I swear to God, Grant—” I start, but Sophie grabs my arm.

I follow her gaze.

It’s Grant. And Poppy. And Poppy’s crying.

“Poppy! What’s wrong? What happened?” Sophie rushes over, hastily buttoning her pajama top as she moves.

But Poppy’s already staring around the apartment, tears brimming, looking half devastated, half confused.

“What the hell, Micah?” she says, motioning toward the pink explosion of blankets and stuffed animals on the couch. “I said a pop of color.”

I blink. “Yeah. Does the pink literally not pop?”

She looks at me like I’m speaking another language, then turns to Sophie.

“H-he broke up with me,” Poppy starts sobbing again, wiping at her eyes. “Wyatt. He said he can’t do this. That he made a mistake. He’s getting back together with his ex.”

What the fuck? “What? Kate? Wait—he just…” I blink, trying to make sense of it.

I glance at Grant, whose jaw is tight, unreadable. Something’s off.