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I like the weight of her soft little body next to me way too much. Her slow breaths, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she purses her lips in her sleep.
Cuddling—when I’m the one who warned her not to catch feelings—seems like a bad idea. But I can’t exactly grab my jeans and hit the road. Well, I could. I can do any fucking thing I want.
And for the rest of the night, I want to hold Margot in my arms and smell her hair, apparently.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Margot
I’m not sure how much later it is when I wake again. My room’s darker.
Jigsaw’s still holding me. I lift my head and find him watching me.
“Did you sleep?”
“Can’t.”
“Why?” I roll away from him. “Is your arm numb from holding me? You should’ve just told me to move.”
He stretches and flexes his arm. “But I like holding you.”
“I like being held by you.” My cheeks warm and I have to look away.
“Hey.” He rolls closer and grips my chin, turning me to face him. “Are you okay? Hurt anywhere? That was a lot…if it had been a while…” His voice trails off, but his serious eyes never leave my face.
I close my eyes for a second, checking in with my body. “No, I feel spectacular.”
Relieved, he blows out a breath and pulls me closer, draping his arm over my waist.
“Can I ask you something without you making fun of me?” I drag my fingers over his shoulder and down the arm resting on my body. “It’s a bit strange.”
“I love strange.” He props his head up on his hand and waits. “Hit me.”
Heat slides over my skin. Am I really asking this? I’m pretty sure I already know the answer. “How come, and please don’t let this go to your head, you’re, um, a lot bigger than any other experience I’ve ever had. But it doesn’t hurt?”
Instead of the laughter I expected, dead silence fills the space after my question.
Finally, he takes a deep breath and asks in a much calmer than he looks voice, “Did any of those other experiences ever bother to warm you up?”
“Not the way you do,” I admit.
He slides his fingers over my shoulder and down my arm. “Your body needs to be ready.” His hand slips between my legs and he groans. “You don’t have any problem getting wet. I’m guessing whoever you were with didn’t bother with foreplay.”
Now that I know the difference, I can say, no, there was never real foreplay.
“Your mind’s important too.” He strokes his fingers through my hair. “If you’re anxious or worried it’s hard for your body to get excited.”
I squirm closer and rest my hand on his chest. “Are you always so considerate and patient? Or am I receiving such a robust education because you want to be a good teacher?”
The tenderness in his expression vanishes. He rolls to his back and throws his arm over his forehead. “Fuuuck me,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He stares at the ceiling for so long fear prickles over my skin. Is he mad at me?
“Thank you.”
He flicks his gaze to me. “For?”
