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But before I could really analyze it, see if he was feeling it too, he was turning and walking back to the door, his gaze averted.
“Goodnight, Jenny,” he said, gently closing the door that let out another of those groans I found myself smiling at.
Alone, I let myself take a deep breath of the sheets before turning on my side to watch the fire dance around happily, feeling something similar inside, finding myself trying to make sense of it until my eyes reminded me of the sleeplessness of the night before, pulling me into a deep unconsciousness.
It was the groaning.
Foreign to my sleepy brain, the unfamiliar groaning sound woke me out of the deadest of sleeps, making my heart jolt a little wildly until I remembered where I was.
At Smith’s.
In his bed.
And the doors groaned.
The doors groaned… when someone opened them.
I threw myself over in bed, finding the door indeed open, a little bit of light flickering in from the living room down the short hall, casting Smith’s wide figure mostly in shadow.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, sleepy-sounding. Like he’d just woken up as well. “I just wanted to check on your fire,” he added, waving a hand to the fire that was just twinkling embers. “I’ll just build it back up and get back out. Go back to sleep,” he said, voice soft, like he was trying to lull me.
But I didn’t sleep.
I was suddenly more awake, more aware than I had perhaps ever been.
Like of the way Smith slept only in thin pajama pants, meaning I got a fantastic view of the outlines of thick, deep muscles of his chest, abdomen, shoulders, back.
Like how his biceps contracted when he reached to put another couple logs on the fire, steepled like a church ceiling.
Like how the wood cracked as the fire started to leap.
Like the immediate warmth it provided.
Like the way the smell of campfire – one of Smith’s smells – filled the room.
Like the way I was suddenly acutely aware of the way the sheets rubbed against my smooth legs, the way my chest felt tight, my nipples peaked, my belly fluttered, my core tightened.
“Wait,” I heard my voice call. Plead, even, as he turned to walk back toward the door.
At the sound, he turned, gaze landing on me. “Do you need something?” he asked, voice deeper than usual.
I don’t know where it came from, the word, the implication behind it, so foreign to me.
I guess it was simple.
It came from a place of need, something primal and unstoppable, something so long denied.
“You,” my voice whispered, going up and down a bit more than was normal, but loud enough to be heard.
I knew it because he stiffened, his head turning over his shoulder like he was sure his self-control was just right behind him and if he eyed it, it might take over him once again.
“Jenny…” he said, his breath exhaling.
This time, I recognized the roughness.
Need.
Like mine.
Like how mine made my voice airy, breathless.
Emboldened a bit by that realization, I sat up, then got to my knees, reaching out, closing my hand around his giant wrist, pulling just the tiniest bit.
“Sweetheart,” he said, gaze still not quite meeting mine. Like he was afraid to. “You’ve been through a rollercoaster the past week or so. I don’t think…”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, making his gaze jump up, likely surprised by the sharpness in my tone, something I didn’t even know I was capable of until I heard it myself. “Everyone is always telling me what to think, what to feel. Please, don’t tell me what to think. Don’t tell me that what I am feeling right now is not really what I am feeling.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, his wrist turning, his hand sliding down to hold mine, giving a squeeze. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” He paused, shaking his head a little. “I just… I don’t want you to regret me,” he admitted, his gaze meeting mine again. And the depth of vulnerability in his words settled into me, gave me the confidence I needed to move a bit closer to the edge of the bed, my hand raising, pausing in the air for a second, then landing on his shoulder, sliding across the warm skin, up the side of his neck, settling at his jaw, thick with his prickly beard, pulling him closer.
“I could never regret you,” I told him, words certain.
And I was.
Certain.
There were a dozen reasons I shouldn’t have been. Not the least of them being that I had never known the touch of anyone other than Teddy, that he had plucked me from the tree, the ripest of fruits for his enjoyment. And despite his endless dalliances, I had been faithful, had never reached for a hand that might give me pleasure that wasn’t laced with pain.
