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“Tell me what you want.” I slick my tongue over my bottom lip.
“Stay here.” He shakes his head. “Give me a minute.”
He turns away and pulls a few items out of his top dresser drawer. “You want a shirt or something to sleep in?”
“Am I staying over?” I ask.
His body stills, but he doesn’t look at me. “I’d like you to.”
“I don’t need anything.”
He either doesn’t get what I’m implying or he isn’t interested. He tosses a T-shirt on the bed.
I’m stunned. My gaze follows him as he walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
A few seconds later, water patters against glass and tiles.
He didn’t even ask me to join him in the shower?
I slump onto the edge of the bed, watching the door. I’m not used to bikers giving me the brush-off. Men always want to get down to business.
He just got out of prison. He should want to fuck, right?
My gaze strays to the door. I can’t even count the number of promises I broke to myself by coming here tonight. Only to be rejected.
Maybe I should find Amanda and leave.
Feeling insecure and unwanted is nothing new. It’s been a while since it hurt this much, though. The uncomfortable feelings crawling over my skin fill me with shame. I thought I was beyond the sting of rejection.
I might not be the smartest, but I finished school. Without parents who gave a damn or anyone else to support me, I found a way and did it on my own. I landed a decent job. I work hard. I care about my patients. My past may be a series of bad choices, but I’m trying to do better.
I don’t need the approval of a man to feel good about myself. Not anymore. My body, my looks—they’re not the only things I have going for me. I’m worth more than how fuckable a man thinks I am.
But the damage I carry inside never completely dies. No matter how many pep talks I recite to myself.
I unlace my boots and yank them off, setting them aside. As conflicted as I am, I refuse to leave. I peel my sweater up and over my head, draping it over the back of a chair. Underneath, I’m wearing an olive-green tank top.
The bathroom door opens with a soft click. Grayson steps out, steam billowing around him. He’s already dressed in a black sleeveless shirt and shorts.
I study him, impressed. He’s on the leaner side but it’s obvious whatever free time he had in prison was spent working out.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask quietly.
Sadness softens his hard edges and the idea that he doesn’t want me to leave finally boosts my fragile ego.
“I want you to stay.” He nods to the bed. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
Still in my jeans, I slide past him into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me.
I lean against the sink and stare into the mirror. “Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
The girl in the mirror doesn’t have any answers. She never does.
Sighing, I wash my face. Without any makeup remover, I do the best I can with a bar of soap to scrub all the eye shadow, heavy liner, and foundation off my skin.
Except for the moonlight spilling in from the uncovered window, it’s dark when I return to the bedroom.
“Grayson?” I whisper.
He throws the covers back in answer.
I slide my jeans down my legs and kick them to the side before slipping into the soft, fresh sheets. Unsure of what he expects, I curl up on my side.
The mattress shifts. His warm, soapy scent drifts my way.
“Serena?” he rasps.
Awareness prickles over my skin.
I turn and he’s closer than I expected. Dark, glittering eyes find mine in the moonlight.
“It’s not you.” His voice is thick and raspy, curling around me.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He stretches his arm out, filling the space between us. “Come closer. I’d like to hold you.”
My pulse hammers as I ease into his space. He curls his arm around my body and buries his face in the crook of my neck, simply breathing me in. He drags his nose along my throat, ghosts his lips over my shoulder. He’s tightly coiled, fighting a battle against himself.
He wants me. We’re so close. Not even the darkness and the covers can conceal his erection. I could try again. Be bold and wrap my hand around his cock. The shorts will be easier to breach than his jeans. He won’t have time to stop me. Once I touch him, he’ll change his mind, right?
It’s too risky. The rejection will scald. And it feels too much like the dirty tricks that have been played on me in the past. I want him to want me, not give in.
He rests one hand on my hip but doesn’t slide it under my shirt or explore beyond that spot. His touch both soothes and confuses me as I accept the small doses of affection he’s willing to give.
