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Every morning, I would wake up with her in my arms, fighting the urge to do more. I would force myself out of bed and into the bathroom before I did something stupid, and a cold shower was the only thing that could somewhat clear my head. Sometimes, I would need to jack off, too, and that was becoming more and more frequent.
Then I would come out to see her already ready or making breakfast.
She didn’t want to quit her job at the restaurant entirely, but she’d gotten her boss to cut down her hours so she could help me. And on her days off, we would eat breakfast together and then head out to scout locations around town. She would tell me her opinions of different office setups and the nightlife scene. Surprisingly, it didn’t seem like she knew much about it, but she tried to be as helpful as possible. But more often than not, the conversation progressed to something else, or we would get involved in other things. It was more talking than I usually enjoyed, but with her, I somehow didn’t mind. Even when she would endlessly go on about something, as though talking to herself, I was happy to listen.
It was different every day, but I tried to get us to spend more time outside the home. It was a way to spend time with her without any misunderstanding that this was anything more than a professional relationship.
Even though she spent every night in my arms, tucked in with her head against my chest.
She would place her palm right under it, too, as if the fact that I was holding her somehow wasn’t enough. Not only that, but she also had to touch and feel me to be sure I was really there.
I was exhausting every single meditation muscle I owned not to touch her back. Sometimes, I would shut my eyes and count down from a hundred, praying I would fall asleep so I didn’t have to think about her anymore. Other times, I couldn’t resist and would stare down at her—at the way her lashes delicately rested on her cheeks, the way her cheekbones glowed in the moonlight, and the way her lips pouted stubbornly even in her sleep. But the rest of her face was rested and at ease, the dark circles and bags under her eyes slowly fading as she got more rest each night.
She was looking healthier lately, which only made me wonder how she had been surviving until this point. She must have been exhausted but holding on the entire time. Every night, she dropped off to sleep nearly the second that I held her, and she stayed that way until her alarm went off in the morning. How had she managed before I got here? Who was the one holding her?
I supposed her boyfriend helped out with that,I thought. I couldn’t deny the curl of hot jealousy in my chest, which made no sense. She wasn’t mine in any sense of the word. I was simply a Good Samaritan here to help her.
And if I said it enough times, maybe I would actually buy my bullshit.
Every night I held her and tried to pretend my cock wasn’t crying out for release, that my body wasn’t aching because I held every muscle still to keep from rubbing against her. And she moved around, sometimes moaning in her sleep and driving me even crazier.
You’re a soldier. I had to caution myself using all the SEAL techniques we learned. I knew how to withstand about thirty different torture methods without flinching, but this was a whole different thing. But I held my control. I lasted for a while too.
Until one day, it all fell apart and broke.
It began during dinner when I asked her the question that had been bugging me since we started.
“How did you deal before?” I asked as she moved around the kitchen, getting dinner ready. She’d insisted on cooking dinner every night, and while she claimed she was no chef, I thought her food was delicious. I didn’t eat a lot of home-cooked meals since I normally didn’t have the time to cook for myself. I mostly ate out as a result, but now I realize how much I missed a nice southern meal.
Today she was making the restaurant special, a Dirty Cheese Burger with a secret sauce and some tomato soup.
“Deal with what?” she asked as she handed Roscoe a piece of treat to get him to settle down and not run around the room. “Cooking?”
“No. Sleeping,” I stated, and she instantly stiffened. Even though we had been sleeping together for several days now, any actual mention of her condition made her distinctly uncomfortable. And I hadn’t mentioned the dreaded therapist thing again.
She shrugged and attempted not to care about it even as she answered, “Don’t know. Just did.”
“You need people around to sleep.”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes I can nap in the afternoons. But at night, it’s more difficult.”
“So you haven’t had a good night's sleep for months now.”
She shrugged. “Well, not all the time. I had boyfriends who didn’t mind sleeping in my room.”
I stiffened. “They knew about your insomnia.”And they didn’t make you see someone about it? They just left you to take care of it by yourself? What kind of horseshit boyfriends were those?
“No,” she said. “I never felt comfortable telling anyone after the first guy I told freaked out and accused me of sleeping with him just to…you know…sleep.”
“Bastard,” I growled, feeling like ripping apart this unknown person.
She shrugged, but there was no heat in her tone. “I couldn’t really blame him, especially since I couldn’t exactly tell you that I didn’t do that.” She avoided meeting my eyes when she said it, like she was afraid I would judge her. But I didn’t. And I also understood the magnitude of what she didn’t say.
I got up and went to her as she hustled around the kitchen to avoid looking back at me.
“Tillie.”
“The patties are on fire.”
