“No,” I whisper. “Not at all.”
He doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t kiss me again either.
Doesn’t pinch my nipple, even though I know he could.
“Do you do this all the time?” I cringe, wishing I’d done a better job of hiding the naked vulnerability obvious in the question.
He’s not moving, so it’s not like he can go more still, but I swear he does. More tense. More something.
Did he quit breathing?
Am I finally freaking him out?
“No,” he replies quietly before I can take the question back.
He doesn’t elaborate.
I should get up.
Or turn around and stroke his erection and ask if he wants to have morning fun.
Instead, I think I’m ruining this. “Why not?” I whisper.
“Some things matter.”
My heart flutters in a slow somersault. “What matters to you?”
“Do you always wake up this talkative?”
“No.”
He takes a deep breath and settles closer, pulling me even tighter still, until his chin is resting on my shoulder. I shift too and hold his forearm against me.
And I wait.
Once again, I don’t think he’ll answer me. But even when he’s quiet, even when he’s not answering—and let’s be real, why should he?—I don’t feel like an inconvenience.
I don’t feel like I’m annoying.
I don’t feel like he’s pulling away.
Hard to imagine when he has me tucked so thoroughly against him.
“Why’d you say no?” he asks.
“Not like I have anyone to talk to in the mornings.”
“To the proposal.”
I cringe.
He tightens his grip.
Not likeI can’t breathetight.
More likeI’ve got you, you’re safetight.
