“Yes?”
“You need sleep.”
“It’s hard when you’re not here.”
His expression clouds, and I think it’s shock that I see on his face, but again, I’m not sure. He’s so good at masking his emotions. I sit up and move toward him.
“You need the rest,” he says, softer now.
“I’ll sleep in a little tomorrow or take a nap.”
He leans forward, examining me. “Fine. Good.”
I watch as he turns, grabs his sleep pants, and moves back into the bathroom. I huff out a breath as I lie back down, knowing my body is flushed.
The bed dips when he slides in.
We lay there, and I sigh, relaxing against the bed.
“You make things…easier,” he says quietly.
I turn to look at him. “Easier?”
He turns to face me, his eyes scanning over my face slowly. Like he’s tracing my skin with his fingers, slow and sensual. “You make it easier to think. To breathe.”
The words crack something inside me. It’s not the first time he’s told me this. But now, given the current stress and situation, it doessomething to me. I know that deep need, that want, to just be you. To be seen
I slide closer, carefully watching his reaction. Giving him time to stop me if he needs or wants.
But he doesn’t. He moves closer, tugging me toward him.
“I feel the same way,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looks at me, our eyes meeting, and something just clicks.
The world narrows to just us. Here. Now.
The distance between us closes slowly, deliberately, inevitable.
His hand on my leg strokes softly. It’s electric even with the fabric between us. Careful and charged. Like he’s testing the waters every time.
It’s soft at first, barely there. A brush of his thumb against the back of my thigh. The faintest pull drawing me closer.
Then his lips find mine, tentative as always, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he’s not careful. I press closer, lips meeting his just as softly.
But his hesitation only lasts a breath. His hand cups my face, tilting my head the way he wants it. His lips push against mine, deepening the kiss. Rough, needy now, his tongue swiping the seam of my lips and begging for entrance. I give it willingly. Stealing the breath from my lungs. Like he’s drowning. And like I’m the only thing keeping him afloat.
My fingers curl into his chest. He rolls me onto my back. His body, warm and safe, looms over me. And his thumb caresses my cheek as his lips devour me whole. There’s no space left between us. Every wall I’ve built up, every doubt, slips away in the heat of his body and mouth against mine.
I feel it all. His hunger, his fear, his need to be so much more than what everyone sees him as.
And for the first time, I let myself fall. Really fall.
My fingers move gently through the short hair at the back of his neck, earning a soft rumble from him. Encouraging me to do it again even as our panted breathing fills the room and my lungs burn for oxygen.
He pulls back, eyes scanning my face. “I’m not good enough at thisstuff,” he says, his gaze meeting mine. “I don’t know how to do this without breaking it.” He’s talking about our relationship now.
God, this man. My hand slides from his hair to his cheek, softly. “You are more than good enough—I promise you.”
