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I finish wiping her down with slow strokes, not because I have to, but because I want to. There’s something about seeing her like this, sated and glowing and mine for just this sliver of time.
Once I’m done, I toss the cloth aside and reach for the edge of the blanket, tugging it up over her bare shoulders. She’s already halfway to sleep, blinking slow, that mouth of hers finally quiet for once. I should get up. Give her space and pretend I’m not a man who just lost his goddamn mind over a woman who talks too much and feels like sunlight.
Instead, I climb in beside her with a huff, one arm slipping under her neck so she has no choice but to tuck into my side. She does willingly, pressing her warm body against mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her.
“This doesn’t mean I like cuddling,” I mutter, settling a hand on her hip.
She hums sleepily. “Sure it doesn’t.”
“You drive me crazy.”
“Right back at you, Sinclair.”
She snuggles in tighter, her hand sliding over my chest, fingers spreading and anchoring themselves to me.
I dip my head, lips brushing the crown of her hair. “You smell like me. Stay like that.”
She lets out a little chuckle that goes straight to my groin. No sass. No comeback. Just that needy, breathless sound as she presses herself even closer, like she would crawl under my skin if I let her.
Her fingers twitch against my chest, then go still, flattened over my heart, claiming it without a single damn word.
This is a terrible fucking idea.
She deserves easy. Light. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things start to feel too good. Someone who won’t ruin it the second fear creeps in and he can’t find the words to explain why he shuts down.
But she’s curled into my side like it’s her favorite place to be, and I’m not strong enough to tell her to stop.
I close my eyes. Breathe her in. And silently accept that I’m completely, undeniably fucked.
seventeen
. . .
Whitley
Morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the bed. Across him.
Beau’s already awake. Lying on his back, arm tucked behind his head, gaze locked on the ceiling.
I stretch beside him, slow and careful, half expecting him to pull away.
He doesn’t. But he doesn’t touch me, either.
“Good morning,” I whisper, searching his profile for a crack in that perfectly built wall. “Is there something interesting on the ceiling?”
He blinks. Doesn’t look at me. “Just thinking.”
My heart sinks. I know that tone. He’s about to slip back into the version of himself that doesn’t make room for anyone else.
I sit up, tugging the sheet tight against my chest. “About what?”
He finally turns his head. “The drive back to Kentucky.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “You’re still planning to leave today?”
He nods. One sharp jerk of his chin.
I hesitate before saying anything else. Let myself feel the ache before I speak because I know exactly where this is going. “I could come with you.”
