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971 Words
He sounds like he’s about to leap from the bed and run out the door. I whisper, “Please don’t leave. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay with me.”
His groan is barely audible. “Tru…”
“I’ll be very still and quiet. Look, I’m going to sleep. I’m asleep already.” I pretend to snore.
When I hear what sounds like a chuckle, my heart leaps with hope. I have no idea why it’s suddenly so imperative that he stay, except maybe that I feel safer when he’s around.
Semihysterical and hormone drenched, too, but mainly safer.
His sigh stirs my hair again. I can tell he’s thinking. Fighting with himself about whether to stay or go. If he does go, I’m not sure he’ll come back this time. If he manages to find the strength to peel himself away from me and walk out the front door, he just might find the strength to stay away for good.
This might be my last few minutes with him. Ever.
The thought causes a little starburst of panic to explode inside my belly.
In one swift move, I turn over, slip my left arm around his waist, and tuck my head under his chin, snuggling up against his solid warmth.
He sucks in a breath and goes rigid.
We stay like that for a while, me curled into him with my eyes squeezed shut, holding my breath, and him impersonating a frozen brick wall. His heart is a jackhammer under my cheek. I don’t dare breathe, or move, or make a sound.
Then, very slowly, his freeze starts to thaw.
The hand that had been squeezing my hip before I turned settles there again, just over the curve of my hipbone, fingers slightly trembling. He lowers his head to the pillow, releasing a fraction of the tension in his limbs, and draws a slow breath.
Then he wraps his arm around my back and gently pulls me closer, sliding a heavy leg over both of mine.
He still has his slacks on. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
The breath I’ve been holding comes out as a sigh. I burrow into his warmth, shivering when his breath tickles my ear. He’s so big. Big and comfy and deliciously hot, his strength and maleness wrapped all around me.
I could stay like this until the end of my days.
He whispers, “This won’t end well.”
“I promise I won’t move again. Not even an inch.”
“I’m not talking about tonight.”
“Can you please not be cryptic for like half a minute? I’m enjoying this.”
He makes a sound low in his throat, a masculine noise of pain or pleasure, I can’t tell which. He says, “Me too. That’s the problem.”
He’s holding me so gently. Like I’m fragile, a piece of bone china he might easily break. I love it exactly as much as it annoys me.
I don’t want him to manhandle me per se, especially not now since I’m sore and bruised pretty much everywhere. But when I’m healed, I hope he doesn’t treat me like I’m so breakable.
In fact, I hope he maybe gets a little…I mean it might be nice if he lost some of that steely selfcontrol and got just the tiniest bit… Rough.
Like love bites on my neck rough. Faint bruises on my hips from his fingers rough. That lovely ache deep inside the next day after you’ve been had by a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, how to put his hands on you and touch you in just the right way to make you moan and shudder and lose yourself to him, and love losing yourself, and beg for more.
Imagining it, a shiver goes through me. A thrill like a single violin note, singing high and sweet.
Into my ear, in a gravelly voice that sounds like he’s on the outermost edge of his restraint, Liam says, “Whatever you’re thinking right now, lass, stop.”
My ears go hot. I breathe, “Sorry.”
He’s tense again. A big ball of tension and nerves, his frustration seeping out with every uneven breath.
I wish I didn’t find his reluctance so seductive. I wish I didn’t think his ambivalence is so hot. But the harder he fights himself and denies himself what his body so obviously wants, the more intrigued I become.
I’ve never met a man who denied himself anything. From what I’ve seen, men walk around assuming the whole world is their candy jar. They delight in taking whatever they want.
But even beyond that, they assume that candy is their birthright. Their due for being born with a d**k between their legs.
They think candy is what they’re owed.
Not Liam Black. He wants, but he doesn’t take.
“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for you, for all the things I want from you that I think you just might give.”
Remembering his words, I wonder what kinds of things he wants from me.
What kinds of things that would make a man like him afraid.
Liam’s chest rises and falls with his sigh. “Go to sleep, lass. Get some rest.”
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Because I whisper, “I hope so,” and I hear his soft groan of despair, and in that despair I hear a surrender.
I wasn’t sure before, but now I know it in my bones. Even if he’s not here in the morning, he’ll come back again soon enough.
The important question now is why he wishes so badly that he wouldn’t.
- Writer
