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“What’s that?”
“That you’re amazing,” I rasp, my voice deep and intense. This isn’t a pep talk anymore, or building up her confidence. This is me selfishly confessing what I think about her, what I feel about her.
She wiggles, turning in my lap to look up at me. There’s just enough moonlight that I can see her eyes jump from mine to my lips. So soft that I almost think I imagine it, she says, “Thank you. For tonight, for doing what I couldn’t do, and even for calling me out. For . . . everything. You’re amazing too, Cole.”
She’s too close. The smell of whatever perfume she put on earlier is invading my nose, and the feel of her pressed against me is too much. I should stop, but I’m not a good man. I’m only pretending to be because I can help her.
I cup her jaw in my hand and take her lips in a searing kiss, pouring everything I feel into her. I don’t have words. I’m shit at them anyway, but I want her to understand.
All the times I’ve glimpsed her smiling at the morning sun and wanted to feel her smile against my lips. All the days I’ve spent lying in the forest, watching Mr. Webster, but actually wondering what she was doing at the cabin. All the showers I’ve listened to her take, going insane that she was naked only feet from me but off-limits. All the beauty I see not only in her pretty face and sexy body, but in her heart, mind, and soul. And all the times I’ve wanted to follow her up that ladder to her bed and fuck her hard and deep and long, something I suspect she hasn’t had in a while.
Fuck, I want her.
But she’s at a crossroads, with Henry, with her family, and most importantly, with herself. I won’t take advantage. I want to help her, not be someone else who hurts her.
So as much as it literally pains me to stop, I do. “Janey,” I say, her mouth still moving with mine as she tries to kiss me back. “Stop.”
She freezes instantly, and though she doesn’t move from the lounge chair, there’s a gaping distance between us. “Sorry, sorry . . . I got carried away with the whole fake boyfriend thing,” she apologizes, her voice artificially high, taking the blame though I’m the one who overstepped.
She wiggles like she’s going to get up, and I grab her, keeping her right where she is so she feels how hard she’s made me. Hell, she can probably feel the precum leaking from my cock at this point because I’m that on edge from kissing her. “I’m not rejecting you. I want you. Fuck, do I want you,” I grit out. “But you’re not ready—not after everything that’s happened. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yeah, I understand. Thanks. I just . . . I’m . . .” She fakes a huge yawn, stretching an arm overhead. “I’m really tired after tonight. I think I’ll turn in and see if I can get some sleep, ‘kay?”
She’s rambling again, each word tumbling on top of the last, and this time, when she moves to get up, I let her. She needs to run right now, but I know she’s not going far.
I stay on the porch as she goes inside, taking her barely sipped hot cocoa to the kitchen. I force myself not to follow her as she goes into the bathroom and changes into her pajamas. I don’t let myself watch as she climbs the ladder, knowing her ass is swaying side to side with each step. Only after a few minutes, when I’m sure she’s settled, do I get up and go inside.
I drop my mug in the sink too and make my way to the bathroom. I turn the shower on, letting it get steamy while I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m a fucking idiot. I’ve done everything I could this week to be a non-threatening, non-asshole, helpful cabinmate, and then I go and fuck it up by not doing the one thing I want to do most—fuck Janey. How does that make any sense?
That’s not the only thing you want to do.
You want to help her too.
That’s true. This whole fake boyfriend thing was my idea because I heard the desperation in her voice when she pleaded with the dipshit to go to the wedding, and it broke something inside me. But even playing savior, I’m not used to caring more about someone else’s heart than I am my own dick. It’s weird and uncomfortable. I don’t like it.
I realize I forgot my bag in the front closet and quietly open the bathroom door in case Janey’s already fallen asleep.
But two steps into the hallway, I realize that Janey’s not sleeping at all. Those quiet, muffled sounds aren’t snores. They’re . . .
