Page 104 of Just One Little Bargain

“Are you okay? I mean, was that okay? What I did . . .”

I laugh, breathless. His throat is still flushed, curls wrecked from my hands, but worry has creased his brow. The switch from all that filthy focus to this shy, anxious question almost does me in all over again.

“You’re asking me to evaluate your performance right now?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay. The performance evaluation can come later. Though I would not object to detailed feedback at your earliest convenience.”

That gets a real laugh out of me, and the anxiety drains from his face. I tug his hand until he moves, crawling up the length of the couch to settle beside me on the cushion.

“I’m okay.” I reach out and push a curl off his forehead. It springs back immediately. “Though my ability to form complex sentences might be temporarily compromised.”

His smile surfaces slowly, traveling from the corners of his mouth to the crinkle beside his eyes. He pushes himself up and reaches for the quilt on the floor, then pauses.

“Ah.” His ears flood pink. “This is . . . well . . .” He winces. “Sorry. I’ll wash it.”

For once I don’t reach for a fix. I don’t strip the couch or run to wash it. I just tug his wrist until he lies back down. “It’s fine, Milo. Come here.”

He folds the stained section of the quilt inward and pulls the rest over us both.

The couch is not built for two people lying side by side. Milo solves this by wrapping his arm around my waist and hauling me against his chest in a single motion. My back slots against his front, his legs tangling with mine.

“I should get up,” I murmur, though my bones have been replaced with something warm and liquid. “Move to my bed.”

“Mmhm.” His thumb strokes along my forearm.

“Just resting my eyes,” I tell him. “Two minutes. Then I’ll move.”

“No rush.” His voice is a low rumble against the back of my neck. “The bed isn’t going anywhere.”

His fingers card through my hair in long, slow passes, each one lighter than the last. I’m asleep before I can count to ten.

Chapter 30

Evie

Morning arrives in pieces. The weight of the quilt, a bird running its argument in the eaves, my bra gone and my pajama top on. Which means at some point in the night, a decision was made about my dignity. The list of candidates runs to one name.

Milo must have carried me here after I dozed off.

I lie still and take inventory of myself, expecting regret to be the first thing I find. It isn’t. What comes back instead is the memory of his mouth, and the wrecked sound he made against my thigh, followed by a certainty so steady it almost embarrasses me—I’d do all of it again.

The door eases open without a sound.

Milo edges in sideways, a mug in each hand, the drawstring of his flannels knotted low. Light from the window lies along his collarbone and gathers in the hollow at the base of his throat, where I can see his pulse ticking. He sees me sitting up and freezes halfway through the room. The sheepish smile arrives all at once. Overnight, his hair has picked a side, flat on the left, in open revolt on the right, with a pillow crease pressed into his cheek.

“Morning.” Sleep has dragged his voice down a register. “I wanted to let you sleep. I thought maybe today you could have a few extra minutes.”

I take the mug he offers and sip. He remembered the half-spoon of sugar I pretend I don’t add when no one’s looking.

“Prep’s all done. I finished everything on the list before you got home. There’s no rush for you to be anywhere.”

He hovers at the foot of the bed, one hand cupped around his own mug.

“So,” we both say at once, and I huff.

A silence follows that holds roughly forty unspoken sentences.

“We should talk about last night,” he says.