Page 39 of Hush, Little Baby

I finish unbuttoning my shirt. “I’m not using them.”

Charlie’s breath catches as I shrug the shirt from my shoulders and drape it neatly over a chair. The fear is still there, unmistakable and bitter, but beneath it—ah. Beneath it, his eyes betray him. They move over my arms, my chest, the dark, thick hair there, the heavy breadth of me, and then dart away again with such violent embarrassment that I nearly smile.

Nearly.

I am not generous enough not to enjoy it, but I am wise enough not to name it. Tonight, the fact that he’s even peeking at me after everything feels like a small miracle.

“I’m going to touch you,” I say, loosening my belt to remove it and set it beside my watch on the dresser. “Not how you’re thinking right now. Not tonight.”

His eyes flash back to mine. “I’m supposed to believe you?”

“I mean, you don’t have to,” I answer, turning my back toward him to slide out of my pants. “But I’d like you to. It’d probably be hard to get a good night’s sleep if you’re scared I’m going to wake up and fuck you at any moment.”

Charlie splutters, “That’s not—I—You don’t have to be vulgar…”

I laugh as I step into my loose cashmere sleep pants, then turn to find his eyes a little lower than he’d like to admit.

His gaze quickly skitters away as he pretends he hadn’t been looking at my brief-clad ass. Sex may not be on the table tonight, but I can’t lie and say that his obvious interest isn’t welcome.

He continues to avoid looking at me as I cross the room to join him in bed. And as I turn off the bedside lamp, leaving only the bathroom light bleeding softly through the cracked door, I smirk at how he’s inched closer to the edge of the bed, determined to be as far away from me as possible.

I settle on my side of the bed, content to let him keep that space between us for now.

“Sleep well, Charlie,” I say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

8

Charlie

I wake up as if something inside me has been struck by lightning.

My eyes snap open, and my whole body jerks under the covers, heart punching so hard against my ribs that for one horrible second I think I might actually be having some kind of cardiac event. My mouth opens around a gasp, but I catch it before it can turn into a sound, clamping my lips together so tightly my teeth click.

It’s still dark.

There is a little line of light spilling in from the bathroom, soft and yellow and expensive-looking, because even the darkness here feels rich. Even the shadows have better lives than I do.

My body is warm under the thick, plush comforter and the robe, which actually feels worse than waking up cold would have been, because my body has no right to feel comfortable right now.

I’d told myself I’d just pretend to sleep, wait until Nikolaus was out, then run. That’s what should’ve happened.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, barely moving my mouth. “Oh my God, Charlie, you stupid fucking—”

I stop, eyes darting across the bed to where Nikolaus is still asleep.

He is lying on the other side of the mattress, which is so big that I think two or three more people could fit between us, but he still feels too close. He is on his back, one arm bent under his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. The blanket has slipped down to his waist, leaving his upper body exposed.

I don’t mean to look.

I really don’t.

But I do.

It’s hard not to, because he’s huge. Not just tall, not just broad in a way that already seemed ridiculous when he was dressed, but heavy and solid and dark all over. Thick chest. Thick arms. Dark, coarse hair across his pecs and stomach, trailing down beneath the sheet in a way that makes my face go hot even through the panic. There are scars too, pale marks cutting across his tan skin in places I do not want to think about too hard, because men like him don’t get scars from normal things. They don’t get them from falling off bikes when they’re kids or burning themselves on cookie sheets.

They get them from knives, or—or bullets… or whatever else crazy people like him get hurt with. Hammers?