When I’m satisfied that I’ve locked the fucking door, I duck into the bathroom and change into cotton shorts and a T-shirt, moving as quietly as possible, with little light.
Even then, Sloane’s sitting up, rubbing her eyes when I step into the bedroom. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did you hear something? Is someone here?”
The way I have to restrain myself to keep from hugging her and kissing her and promising her she’s safe… “Had to put out the campfire.”
“You had a campfire?”
Her voice holds a yearning that hits me in the gut. “You like camping?”
“I like campfires. And s’mores.” Her voice gets softer. “And friends. Tillie Jean took me to a campfire at Beck’s house once. It was nice.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Unlimited s’mores at Beck’s house.”
“Unlimited fun. Friendly people. Very entertaining.”
“That too.”
I missed a campfire at Beck’s house that Sloane was at.
That sucks.
But is probably a good thing.
Peggy meows at me.
I stretch out on my side of the bed, wishing I had this room arranged so I could be closer to the door than Sloane is instead of having the door at our feet, where if someone or something broke in, it would have to go through me first.
I locked the door.
I made very certain to lock the door.
Dixon’s a coward. He wouldn’t break into an occupied home.
But I still triple-checked that I locked the door.
“You can get under the covers if you want,” she says quietly. “We’re both adults. And Peggy always sleeps with me, and she likes you, so she’ll probably sleep in the middle of the bed. She’ll be like a self-appointed barrier. And, it’s your bed. Very important detail. I could go sleep on the couch.”
The cat meows again.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch.” I hesitate briefly, then climb under the quilt.
The sweatpants I left out are on the floor next to her side of the bed, right next to her scrubs, which means she’s in nothing but a T-shirt and probably her panties.
One of my T-shirts.
Mind over body. Mind over body.
She’s here because she needs help.
Not because it’s playtime.
And now I’m thinking about her toys. That one dildo—it was ungodly large. Not the largest I’ve ever seen—or nearly been hit with—but larger than necessary. I think. My dick’s not really a biological weapon, but it’s healthy. I’mblessed, as the fucking gaslighter from Sloane’s past would say.
And that vibrator—I haven’t dated in a very long time.
Averylong time.
I have no business knowing anything about vibrators.
