Page 2 of Where the Snakes Sleep

This is neither the right situation nor the right partner.

Lately, every time it leaves Paul’s mouth, it sounds less like he’s talking about a part of my body and more like he’s talking about the person he wishes I’d stayed.

I catch his wrists and push them away from my hips. “No.”

His hands immediately drift back. “C’mon, Ry.”

“I said no.”

“You used to like it.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“So then what’s the problem, babe? We both want it.”

“I can’t,” I force out. “I just can’t, okay?”

For the past month, every time he’s tried to steer us toward using my front, I’ve found an excuse.

Headache.

Too tired.

Work in the morning.

Anything.

Because the last two times we’d had sex that way, his condom had “broken.”

The first time, I convinced myself it was an accident. These things happen—no big deal. I just made sure to take a morning-after pill, and threw out the rest of the box of faulty condoms.

But the second time? When I’d seen the look on his face afterward?

He wasn’t panicked, or frustrated, or anything close.

He had looked hopeful.

Ever since then, every mention of it has made my pulse skyrocket.

I don’t want kids; I have never wanted kids, and the idea of getting pregnant sits somewhere between my worst nightmare and a horror movie I can’t turn off. Paul knows that.

“You’re overthinking this,” he says quietly, like he’s reading my mind.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

His voice softens into something almost pleading. “I miss being close to you.”

“You are close to me.”

“Not like that.”

I laugh once—a tired, humorless sound. “My ass isn’t enough?”

The question hangs in the air.

I’ve been saying yes to things I don’t particularly enjoy because they’re the only things that still feel safe.