He holds me tighter; a possessive gleam shines in his now dark eyes. “Don’t finish that.”
I lean forward, my lips to his ear. “I couldn’t focus on anyone else when my attention wasonlyon number six.”
“Lucky guy,” he pridefully states, pulling back so he can look at me.
I should let go. I need to let go. But my brain won’t connect with whatever it is that sends the signals to get the rest of my body to work. I stay rooted in my spot, my arms still around his neck, fingers twined through his thick, soft locks.
“So what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Celebrating with you, of course.”
“You realize we’re standing on the staircase. Pretty positive this doesn’t count as celebrating.”
“It is as long as you’re spending it with the person you want to be with.” He stares at me so endearingly, it makes my skin itch again. “How we celebrate doesn’t matter, as long as I get to be with you.”
My heart manically races. “How do you want to celebrate it then?”
“Can I hold you?”
His question throws me off. “I think you’re already doing that.”
“No, I mean, can we watch a movie or something and you let me hold you?” he firmly asks, but the question doesn’t sound demanding. It sounds like a plea.
“I’m not a cuddler.” I get awkward being held for too long or even at all. I know Daniel’s held me before, but that was all in the moment and when I wasn’t thinking straight. Even now, I’m only okay because he’ll let go soon. “I…I get weird and I move and you’ll get annoyed and things will get weird. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”
“Can I be the judge of that?” His face dims like he already knows that I’m going to say no.
I want to say that but maybe being held by him won’t be the worst thing in the world. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
“Okay.”
“Yeah?” he asks, voice bordering on zealous.
I smile at that. “If that’s what you really want.”
“I really do.”
A few minutes later after he’s placed a pizza order, he’s sitting on the couch and I’m trying to figure out which is the best way to settle next to him. Bryson and I didn’t cuddle, and if weever did, we always ended up having sex. It wasn’t because I wanted to, but he was insistent, and I just wanted him to shut up.
What the hell was wrong with me?Hatred and self-loathing, a self-deprecating voice taunts in my head.
A laugh bursts out of him. “Don’t overthink it. Come here.”
I scratch the back of my neck and pad over to him. “So how do we do this? Do you want me on my side or on top of you or…”
“I want you however you’re comfortable, but we really don’t have to do this.” He smiles assuringly. “I’m good with you sitting next to me.”
“No, I’ll cuddle with you. Lie down,” I instruct, and on beat, he does. He’s on his side, elbow propped up, his temple resting on his closed fist. I sit and stiffly lay on my side, until my back is flush against his front. “Is this okay?”
“As long as it’s okay with you.” I nod and then he asks, “Can I put my arm over you?”
He literally had his mouth on me and fingers inside me, yet he’s still asking for permission to do that? There’s no way he’s real. I must be dead because guys like him don’t exist.
“Yeah,” I respond quietly.
He drapes his arm over my stomach, his massive palm resting on top of my hand. Then I feel his mouth hover over my ear. “You’re safe, Josefine. I promise.”
I twist my head to look up at him. “I know.”
