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I don’t need an invitation to snuggle into his chest, I just do it. When he wraps his arms around me, I tangle my cool legs with his and—for the first time all night—I feel safe and warm.
“Are you okay?” he mumbles into my hair.
He doesn’t ask me what happened. He doesn’t ask me why I’m there in the middle of the night. He already knows.
Tilting my head back until I can feel his breath against my lips, I whisper, “I needed you.”
Lawson kisses me then, and I’m quick to return his affection, parting my lips invitingly. With one of my legs between both of his, I can feel it as he starts to grow hard, and I lean into him a little more.
With a soft groan, Lawson pulls away and mutters, “Don’t tempt me, songbird. We can’t. Not here.”
Burying my face in his neck, I hide my smile and nod.
We’ve only had sex a handful of times, but not in either of our beds. He’s already laid down the law, insisting we can’t ever make love at his house. It isn’t simply because his family is super Catholic. While they wouldn’t approve of our intimacy before marriage, Lawson’s not so worried about that. He has every intention of marrying me one day, and we both know it.
No, the reason we can’t have sex at his parents’ house is because of the way he makes me croon. It’s why he started calling me his songbird. We’d definitely get caught.
“I know,” I finally say. “Sorry.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry about, baby.”
Silence settles between us. In the darkness and the comfort of Lawson’s arms, I remember where I was laying an hour ago. I compare the silence of the Steele residence and its sleeping inhabitants to the selfish, remorseless owner of the trailer I regretfully call home.
“I never want to be like her,” I whisper. “Not ever.”
Lawson tightens his grip around me, and neither of us say another word before drifting off to sleep.
I wake to the sound of voices. I feel cozy and warm, and the last thing I want to do is open my eyes—but then I notice I’m in bed alone. I sit bolt upright, then realize I didn’t merely wake to the sound of voices. It’s the sound of an argument.
I’m quick to throw the covers off as I scramble out of bed and hurry to the partially open bedroom door.
“We didn’t do anything,” I hear Lawson say defensively. “We were just sleepin’.”
“And since when has it been okay for your girlfriend to spend the night?”
It’s Gale who issues the rhetorical question as I tiptoe my way toward the stairs.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like for her in that trailer? Callin’ Earlene her mom is a joke. Nora-Jean climbs out of the window in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep because her mom is too busy screwin’ some stranger all over the place!”
“Lawson Walker—”
“It’s the truth, Judge,” he argues, interrupting his father.
As I make it to the bottom of the staircase, the scene is laid bare before me—Lawson with his back to me on one side of the living room, Mr. and Mrs. Steele facing off with their son on the other side. Gale is still in her bathrobe, but Keaton is half dressed in slacks and an ironed button-up he hasn’t buttoned yet, revealing the white undershirt he’s tucked into his pants.
He’s the first to notice me, but he doesn’t have a chance to speak, Lawson still making his case.
“She walked here in the dead of the night. What was I supposed to do, huh? I only did what you’ve taught me to do my whole life. She needed a safe place, mom.”
With his hands on his hips, Keaton takes a steep breath, looks at his wife, at Lawson, then finally settles his gaze on me.
“Next time, you’re welcome to the couch. Am I understood?”
Instantly, all eyes are settled on me as I nod and reply, “Yes, sir.”
Nora-Jean woke with a start, the familiar weight of Lawson’s arm draped around her conjuring memories from long ago. This definitely wasn’t the first time she’d woken up with him in bed—both of them naked beneath the sheets. But those weren’t the memories that rushed to the front of her mind. It was all those times when she’d woken up in Lawson’s arms on Keaton’s couch, andwhy.
She gasped, suddenly fully awake and cognizant of where andwhenshe was. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Then again, not much of what happened the previous night had beenplanned. Not that kiss. Not her first orgasm or her second. Not the hour they spent touching each other as if they needed to in order to stay in the dreamlike atmosphere they shared. Not his second orgasm brought about by her third. None of it had been planned.
