The command in his voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with muscle memory.
My body remembers what it’s like to obey that voice. To surrender to it.
I hesitate. One heartbeat. Two.
Then I comply.
I turn as he sits on the edge of the mattress, then pulls me into his lap.
His hands find the knots in my lower back immediately, thumbs pressing into the muscles on either side of my spine. Fingers knead across the curve. He hits a spot just above my hip that’s been screaming for attention, and I make a trampy whimper I definitely don’t mean to make.
Embarrassing as hell. Utterly involuntary.
“Better?” he asks, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
“God, yes.”
His hands work their way up my spine, finding knots I didn’t even know existed. I feel myself softening under his touch, the tension I’ve been carrying for weeks—months—years—slowly unspooling.
“You’re carrying everything too high,” he murmurs. “Stress, the baby. It’s throwing your whole alignment off.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hale, for that thoughtful chiropractic assessment.”
“I’m serious. You need to—” His thumbs press into a spot that makes me see actual stars. “There. That’s the one.”
I melt a little more.
When he’s finished—by which point my muscles have been reduced to something approximating human tissue rather than concrete—I don’t want to move. The mattress is still lumpy under my ass and as hostile toward my vertebrae as ever, but with Bastian’s warmth cocooning me, it feels almost bearable.
Without either of us ever really agreeing to it, I turn, sink to my knees on the carpeted floor, and start to undress him. His skin is warm under my palms as I help him shrug the shirt off his shoulders. I toss it aside, and then it’s just Bastian in his jeans, his chest bare, his heartbeat steady under my fingertips when I press my hand flat against his sternum.
“Pants, too,” I murmur. “You can’t sleep in denim. That’s psychopath behavior.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. I feel the mattress buckle as he stands, hear the metallic clink of his belt buckle, the sound of a zipper. More fabric hitting the floor.
“Boxer briefs,” he reports. “In case you were wondering about the state of my underwear.”
“I wasn’t.” I am, in fact, lying. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
He climbs back onto the pullout, and the whole thing groans in protest. The springs squeak. The frame creaks. The whole house is probably awake and listening by now, but I don’t care.
“Come here” he orders. It’s a bit softer than before. Still a command in most regards, since Bastian Hale has yet to learn the proper use of the question mark, but not quite as snarly as his daytime default.
Again, I find myself obeying.
I crawl up the mattress and find the divot that fits me. Bastian molds himself around my body from behind. The couch isn’t really big enough for two people, but we make it work, anyway, fitting together the way we always have.
Like puzzle pieces that someone intentionally designed to interlock.
Like we were built for exactly this configuration and nothing else.
His arm drapes over my waist and I feel his hand settle on my belly—tentative at first, his fingers barely grazing the fabric of my shirt. Then more confident when I don’t pull away, his palm flattening against the curve.
“Just for tonight,” I whisper in warning.
“Just for tonight,” he agrees.
His lips brush against my hair and I let my eyes close, let myself have this one stolen moment of peace. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to our separate corners. I’ll rebuild my walls and he’ll respect them and we’ll pretend this never happened.
