“You don’t have to do this for me,” I whisper against his mouth.
He growls. “You think this is just for you?”
“I—” I cut myself off with a gasp as he shifts his lips to my neck.
He smells earthy and raw and like a summer night, and the realness of him is my anchor.
He’s not perfect.
He’s just like me.
Someone with a past, who’s screwed up, who has regrets, and who’s still dealing with mistakes from a long time ago.
He’s myhope.
If he can do better, if he can find where he fits, so can I.
And the idea that he knows so many ofmysecrets, that he’s seen me screw up and not keep my shit together, and he still likes me—
No,lovesme—
It’s a heady, intoxicating mix.
Usually, guys like me because theydon’tknow me.
But Dylan—he knows my faults and my insecurities. He doesn’t see me as some paragon of perfection. He treats me like he’s glad I’m here. Like I’m welcome in his home.
Not an inconvenience.
And when his hand drifts up my thigh—I am definitelynotan inconvenience to this man.
Not that I’ve thought I was the past two weeks, but tonight ismore.
And not because I’m leaving.
But because he came to take care of me.
“Touch me more,” I gasp.
“Here?”
“Everywhere.”
“I don’t want to hurt your ankle.”
Guilt streaks through my core, but I shove it away, making myself promises that if I don’t come back after my trip to Costa Rica, I’ll find a way to see him again. To explain. To make it up to him. “You won’t hurt me.”
“Damn right. No gymnastics for you tonight. You just lie there. Let me do all the work.” He skims my hip, his fingertips a light brush that sends goose bumps skittering across my flesh while he nibbles on my collarbone.
I don’t know how he’s staying on the bed, and so long as he doesn’t fall off, I don’t care.
“How’s this?” he murmurs against my skin while his hand sneaks under my shirt as if he hasn’t done this dozens of times in the past two weeks.
“Higher.”
His knuckles brush my ribs. “This?”
“Higher.”
