Page 83 of Aryn

“I want you,” he whispers. “Lay here with me… that’s all. I just… I feel safe when you’re here.”

I hesitate for only a second before giving in. I strip down to my shirt and underwear and slide into bed beside him. Cato immediately curls into me, burying his face against my chest and throwing one leg over mine. His body is still loose and trembling from his release.

I wrap my arms around him and hold him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m right here,” I murmur against his hair.

He sighs contentedly, already drifting. “You’ve got my back?”

“Yeah, kitten. I’ve got your back.”

Long after his breathing evens out, I stay wide awake, staring at the wooden beams on the ceiling while his body grows heavy against mine.

Cato

My mouth is dry, and the faint taste of smoke lingers on my tongue as I shove my face deeper into the pillow. For a few blissful seconds, I don’t remember anything. Then it all crashes back in vivid, humiliating color.

The bonfire. Flirting with Lirien because I knew Aryn was watching. Egging him on, waiting until Aryn snapped, then climbing into his lap like a desperate animal and grinding on him in front of everyone. Whispering filthy things against his neck while begging him to be mine. Letting him undress me, and…

Oh gods.

My stomach crashes to my feet then flies back into my throat so fast I gag, and heat floods my entire body. The room spins as I sit up too quickly, swinging my legs off the edge of the bed and staring down at my bare thighs. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth when I swallow, like some sort of evolutionary response telling me to keep fucking quiet. I risk a glance behind me.

Aryn is awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching me with calm, careful eyes. “Cato…” he starts, voice soft.

My eyes snap back to the floor. I can’t possibly look at him right now. Overheated, boiling blood crawls up my neck and ears as my stomach clenches, and I wobble when I stand.

“I need a minute,” I rasp.

“Cato, wait—”

I ignore him and hurry into the washroom, slamming the door behind me. I lean back against it, eyes squeezed shut.

Fuck.

I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, the heat of his breath when his mouth got so close to mine. The vindication of making him jealous and how fast I fell apart as he watched. How I begged him to kiss me, then to touch me, then to stay with me afterward. I was every bit as needy as he accused me of being.

Kitten.

Every word I said replays like a broken record. Even now, mortified as hell, they sit right on the tip of my tongue. I don’t even know if I meant them, but I wanted to.

I want to.

Golden light flares through my eyelids, and I drag my hands down my face to stare at the mark on my arm. It feels like a taunt, and I don’t know whether I love it or hate it. My eyes shift to the sunrise outside the window. I can’t stay locked in this bathroom forever.

After a minute, I force myself to move. I strip and step into the shower, cranking the water as hot as it will go. The heat helps a little, but it doesn’t wash away how good it felt to let him take control. It doesn’t change how safe I felt curled up against his chest.

When I finally step out and wrap a towel around my hips, I feel slightly more human. I begrudgingly wash my clothes from last night and wring them out. I guzzle a glass of water from the sink, brush my teeth, then stare at my reflection, knowing I can’t hide in here any longer. Eventually, I brace myself and open the bathroom door.

Aryn waits exactly where I left him. His expression is cautious as he looks at me, but I can tell he’s not going to let me get away with this shit.

He nods toward the table. “Sit.”

Something in me reacts to the calm command in his voice. I hesitate for half a second, but instead of fighting it, I cross the room and drop into the chair.

Aryn doesn’t speak right away. It’s just us and this fucking quiet, and I’m no better than an addict, twitching and jonsing for some noise to fill these empty spaces. When it starts to be too much and I’m about to break this silent standoff, he slips into the bathroom and comes back with a clean towel. He steps behind me, the heat of his body nearly overwhelming as I brace for whatever he’s about to say.

But he doesn’t talk yet.

He dries my hair, movements slow and so fucking careful. The quiet intimacy of it makes my chest feel tight. He rakes through the damp strands with his fingers, then uses my comb to work out every tangle without pulling.