I pressed my thighs against the sides of his face, the feel of his beard on my tender skin sending me over an edge I hadn’t expected. “I still … can’t even feel my legs.”
He chuckled. “That feeling isn’t going to come back anytime soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have, what, a little over two and a half hours until you have to go?”
I still couldn’t see his eyes. His face. Or his expression that would give me some kind of clue as to just how serious he was.
“Hold on a second.” I tightened my fingers around his hair. “You’re going to do thatagain?”
“Yes.” He kissed my clit. “And again.”
When I walked into the living room of Whiskey’s suite, he was sitting on the couch, his phone in his hand, dressed in a pair of gray sweats. Shirtless, like always, his muscles so tight even though he wasn’t flexing.
“Why aren’t you in bed?” That was what I’d immediately thought when, after showering and getting dressed, I came out of the bathroom and found an empty room.
“There’s no reason to lie in there if I’m not going to sleep.”
“But isn’t it more comfortable than the couch?”
He set his phone down and spread his arms across the tops of the cushions. “I have freedom on the couch. A bed is full of tight sheets and a heavy comforter. Every toss and turn pisses me off a little more. I feel like I’m in fucking jail.”
“You felt that way when I was in bed with you?” I walked toward him and stopped next to the coffee table, putting a few feet between us.
“Not at all. You made it different. You made it … tolerable.” He ran a hand over the top of his hair, the gel long gone, so the dark locks were flat.
I adjusted the bag on my shoulder—something I’d retrieved after my first night here. “Are you headed home today?”
He shook his head and then shrugged.
I knew that feeling.
Home was a place you eventually had to return to, but you’d rather chew off your legs.
I couldn’t make that feeling better for him.
I couldn’t take it away.
Reality had set in for us, which meant I was going to sneak into Dean’s house so I could change into my uniform even though there wasn’t a single ounce of me that wanted to set foot in that place ever again.
But I was already running a little late since Whiskey had kept his word and spent hours just where he’d promised, so I really had to go.
“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” I admitted. “The first time seemed a little easier—not sure why.”
But I did.
So did he—I was sure of it.
“Come here.” He opened his arms.
When I stepped into them, he wrapped them around my legs, his face buried into my stomach. I leaned down, my mouthgoing into the softness of his hair, the scent of his cologne even reaching up here.
I wasn’t going to ask for his number.
And I knew, in my gut, he wasn’t going to ask for mine.
We had met when we needed each other the most. Maybe, in a different time, in a different place, we’d meet again.
