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I release hot, frustrated air as the footsteps finally move away, grow quieter, and head into the bathroom. Blood pounds at my ears, and my fingers are cramping from clutching onto my bed sheet so hard. Eventually, the tap stops running, footsteps commence, and the living room door clicks shut again.
I groan. Then I bring my hands together and squeeze my eyes shut.
Dear God,
Remember what I said about not making any more bad decisions? Well, can that start tomorrow?
If I don’t go now, the sensible voice in my head will talk me out of it, so I leap to my feet, wrap the duvet around me, and bustle down the corridor and into the living room.
He’s sitting on the couch, elbows propped on his knees and hands steepled under his chin, his glare burning a hole into the carpet.
“I told you to go to sleep.”
“I want you to stay in my bed.”
Even as the words tumble from my mouth and spill out into the space between us, I fluster with embarrassment. God, I’ve never been so forward with a man, but I also know this might be my last chance to see him. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up tomorrow morning to nothing but the groove of his ass immortalized into the sofa.
His fists clench and unclench, then in a surprisingly soft voice, he says, “Go to sleep, Dahlia Rose.”
The rumbling of a train slices through the tension.
And silence.
My cheeks burn and blister. “You’re not going to sit in this living room all night staring at the carpet. Come to bed.” I lower my voice and say, “It’s warm and pretty comfy. I’ll be the big spoon if you want.”
He groans in a way that tells me I’ve won. Without another word, he rises to his feet, slashes my soul with a glare, then follows me into the bedroom.
I crawl into the bed, every nerve ending quivering, and my brain racking this reckless decision around like a tennis ball.
The bed dips as he lowers his bulk, sitting at the end of it. Silence pulsates until I rip back the covers and pat the pillow next to me, a cheesy but nervous grin on my face.
His chest sinks, then shaking his head, he says, “Turn over. Onto your side.”
Oh god, this is really happening.
A cocktail of nervous energy and anticipation poisons my bloodstream. I roll over and stare at the bare wall. The mattress moves, the light clicks off, and the bed groans again.
Immediately I can feel his warmth. Then his heavy breathing tickling my back. I stifle a groan, but I can’t resist the urge to scoot my bum back half an inch until his chest is pressed against my back. His breathing comes to an abrupt stop. My breathing falters too as I wait for him to move away.
He doesn’t.
Eventually, he releases a slow hiss of breath, relaxing into me. I can feel the outline of every carved abdominal muscle against my spine, and it spreads a warm, hot heat between my legs.
“Did you take your clothes off?” My voice is strangled.
The silence crackles.
“They were covered in blood.”
Holy mother fucking shit.
As if reading my mind, he murmurs, “I have underwear on.”
“Right.”
The sound of my heart slamming against my chest is so loud, he must be able to hear it too, especially as he’s so scarily still. The only parts of our body that are touching is my back against his chest, but as I grow more comfortable, and as my mind wanders, I start to crave more.
Slowly, I move my head back, until my crown grazes his collar bone. I let my new position stew for a while. When he doesn’t move, I brave pulling my legs up, just enough for the back of my thighs to rest against the front of his.
