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Slowly, he returns his gaze to meet mine again, one white brow rising in question.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Shit.
That sounded stupid, something a girl like he accused me of being earlier today would say to someone she felt she needed to explain herself to.
You don’t owe this man anything.
Absolutely nothing.
It’s true.
I don’t.
He may have cared for me the last two weeks and ensured I was as comfortable as possible in a very uncomfortable situation, but he did so without expecting anything in return.
Then why do I want to give him everything?
The question has plagued me, left me restless and sleepless all night. But now that I’m standing in front of him, with his hard, clenched, bearded jaw, his silver hair glinting in the lamplight from the desk, in this beautiful library he basically gifted to me, all I want to do is get closer and forget the why.
“Go back to bed, Callista.”
The waver in his normally steady voice makes my heart hammer wildly against my ribcage wildly as it recognizes that fluctuation for what it is—a chink in his armor.
I shake my head. “It won’t do any good.”
His fist clenches on top of the book in front of him. “Neither will you being in here.” He pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping over the hand-hewn wood floors, and towers above me—all broad shoulders and muscled chest under a T-shirt stretched across them. “Go, Callista.”
The “please” flashes across his eyes, but it never leaves his lips. That would be one step too far tonight. He won’t say the word, but he’s still begging me to leave. He needs me to because he’s afraid of exactly the thing I came here seeking.
“I don’t want to…”
It’s as true an answer as I can give him without explicitly telling him why I’m here, and I move around the table slowly, my left hip pressed to it. When I make the turn and advance toward him down that side, he tenses.
I slip into the space between him and the table’s edge. Our bodies now mere inches from each other, the heat of his seeps into me, warming my exposed skin despite the frostiness he attempts to cast my way.
Gazing up into his eyes, I see through it and find need mixed with his reservation. “You can’t run away from this, Weston. I’m here. Maybe forever, right?”
I raise a brow at him.
It’s the only conclusion I’ve been able to come to—that someone, somewhere, wants to use me to manipulate Dad’s actions, and there’s a chance that may never end.
Weston scowls, but he doesn’t refute my assessment or back away when I’ve made my intentions abundantly clear.
A win—though tiny.
Testing my luck, I tentatively reach out and press my hand to his chest. He stiffens as a jolt of electricity surges down my arm and through my entire body.
My pussy throbs and clenches, craving that shared energy, that connection, the combustion of the slow sizzle of attraction that pulsates between us.
“We may not have freely chosen this initially, Weston, but it doesn’t make it any less of a conscious choice now, does it?”
He grinds his jaw, the sound harsh and almost desperate. Like if he does it hard enough, he might be able to break through whatever mental block is preventing him from acting.
His body begins to tremble like he’s fighting something building inside him the same way I have been. “You should go, Callista.”
Each word comes like they’re painful for him to say.
