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I groan as I reach my arms above my head and stretch out, hearing the click of my stiff joints. Archer’s eyes darken as they land on where the duvet has ridden up to expose my bare hip.
Oh. Shit.
I swallow, noting the heat in his gaze. The space between us becomes charged, a string pulled taut, but all I say is, ‘I should go home.’ I silently curse the tremble in my voice.
‘You should.’ But he moves towards me—prowls, more like. As if he knows exactly what that slow precision does to me. The longing, the teasing, the promise of dark, terrible things.
The apex of my thighs throb. He watches me with that predatory intent as he toes off his boots, as he draws his shirt over his head, deliberately straining the muscles in his arms. His fingers move for his jeans, and thepopof the button as he undoes them is loud enough to make my toes curl.
But despite my body wanting him,needinghim, my mind still lingers in that bathtub. I’m still drowning, drowning, drowning—
He slides beneath the covers, and his hard cock pulses against my arse. His arm wraps my waist, no longer soothing and comforting as it was last night, but driven by desire. Want. The cold tip of his nose makes me flinch as he presses it against my neck and breathes me in, as his other hand snakes beneath me to cup my breast. His fingers delve lower, tracing taunting patterns across my stomach, lower still, whispering over my hip and trailing back up my thigh, and then—
His finger grazes me, a gentle, wicked touch.
My voice is hoarse. ‘Archer, I don’t want to—‘
‘Really, love?’ His grin is cruel and sharp against my skin. ‘Because you’re dripping.’
He smells like Joop and star-kissed skies and sweat and fuck I want every inch of him pressed against me, but I shake my head. ‘I don’t—‘ I start to say, but my words turn to a gasp when he plunges a finger inside me.
Archer groans, but his voice is soft when he says, ‘What were you saying?’
He pulls his finger out, adds another, and pushes them in, and every thought empties from my mind. What had I been about to say? His fingers still for a moment, and I clench around him, and his other fingers tease my nipple, making it peak and making my clit tingle andthrob—
I whimper and grind against him, but my breath hiccups when his hand clamps my breast, hard.
‘Did I say you could move?’ he growls into my ear.
My mouth dries—not because of his guttural command that usually has me begging for him, but because for once I don’t want rough sex. After last night, I want to be held tightly, his chest flush with mine, not pounded from behind as he yanks my head back with my hair. I want him to fuck me with the tenderness and care he expressed last night, the gentle caress of his touch as he cupped my cheeks, and the slow precision of his movements as he folded me into his arms, sodden and trembling, but also with a steadfast fierceness, as if he could hold me together by sheer force.
I grab his wrist, halting his fingers. ‘Stop.’ My voice is quiet but firm.
‘Do you want me to edge you?’ he breathes.
I have no idea what that is, but I say, ‘I don’t want to. I’m not horny anymore.’
He growls—not a sound of pleasure, but annoyance. He rolls away from me. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
And just like that, any hope that this could work evaporates like water in a desert.
I think that’s why I haven’t ended things with him, because last night was a glimpse of everything I want. A man who takes care of me, who puts my needs before his own when I need him to.
And even now, as tears well, I grasp at the thin thread of hope that he’ll become that man again. Even as he pushes me further away, I hold onto that, because I’d rather have him at forty percent than not have him at all.
Than be alone.
And maybe, just maybe, those brief, fleeting flashes of comfort and affection will be enough.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I say drily. ‘Oh, I don’t know. My dad has cancer, my mum left, I got sacked, and I have no friends. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me.’
‘And they’re my fault?’
‘I’m not saying that—‘
‘You just did.’
‘Did I though, Arch? Think long and hard about it: did I actually say it’s your fault?’
