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I climbed off the bottom end of the bed, slipping into the bathroom and closing the door quietly. When I was done, I headed back to the bed, and found Remmo rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“You okay?” I checked
“Yeah. Just been a long time since I slept that well.” He yawned widely, remaining where he was.
Hesitation had settled in my middle, but I forced it to subside as I climbed back to my spot in the bed. Remmo was on his back, so I plopped down on my back too. My side met his, but neither of us reacted to the touch.
I was itching to ask him about what I’d watched him do the night before—and whether or not he’d been imagining me when he did it. Logic told me I was definitely the motivating factor, but self-doubt and past experiences made me question said logic.
I didn’t want to be the needy chick who asked questions about that shit, though.
“Why did you sleep so good?” I asked, instead.
Hoping he would somehow admit to jerking off before coming to bed with me.
“Being here in my home, where I know we’re both safe, puts me at ease,” he admitted. His hand found mine, and his fingers slid between mine.
That was all he was going to give me.
Unseelie bastard.
I was going to have to be more blunt.
More… honest.
I supposed he probably wanted that, even if it was going to kill me a little on the inside.
“So, being just friends is a little hard on me, physically,” I began.
As soon as I said that, my brain started screaming at me to abort the mission.
But it was too damn late.
“What are your thoughts about us touching ourselves?” I asked, fighting the urge to cringe at my own awkwardness.
My brain was still screaming at me to change the subject.
To take it back.
To walk away.
I forced myself to remain calm, even though he made me wait for what felt like an hour (but was probably only two minutes) before he answered.
“If we are keeping our hands to ourselves, I think it’s to be expected,” Remmo finally said.
“Same.” I nodded.
And couldn’t come up with a tactful way to tell him that he’d better not be imagining any of my friends when he jacked off, or I was legitimately going to kill him.
I felt him look at me, and forced my gaze to remain on the ceiling a long, long way above us.
“You look stressed,” he told me.
“Thanks,” I drawled.
His chuckle didn’t relax me one damn bit. “If you have a question, just ask it, Iloli.”
I huffed. “It’s fine if you touch yourself, obviously. I’m not your boss or anything. I just don’t like the idea of you thinking about another woman while you’re doing it. So—“
