The tender forehead kiss.
The quiet promise.
It’s too much.
By the time I pull into the garage next to James’s empty spot, I feel like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.
The apartment door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing unnaturally in the thick silence.
James still isn’t home.
A month ago, even a week ago, the silence, the emptiness, would have gutted me.
Tonight?
I barely register it.My blood pounds too loudly in my ears, my nerves still frayed and buzzing from the push and pull that is Matthew.
Kicking off my heels, I storm into the bedroom.I let my purse fall to the floor and launch myself face down onto the mattress, burying my head deep into the pillow to let out a muffled, frustrated growl.
Why?
Why lean in like that?
Why make me hold my breath?
Why make me want it?
Only to then pull back and talk about respecting boundaries?
And the tenderness, the forehead kiss, theperfectly simplecomment…
I flip onto my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, chest heaving.My fingers trace the path on my cheeks where his thumbs had brushed, then drift to my forehead where the ghost of his lips still lingers.
Despite the frustration, despite the confusion, a defiant warmth spreads through me.
Matthew.
The name itself is a contradiction.
Infuriating, confounding, kind, protective…
Undeniably magnetic.
Lost in the conflicting warmth, my eyelids grow heavy.Exhaustion finally claims me, right there on top of the covers, green dress and all.
Hazy images float through my mind…
Gentle hands exploring…
Warm and seeking…
Fabric sliding up my legs, bunching uncomfortably…
A feathery soft breath over my skin…
Matthew…?
But the hands moving over my thighs are rough, clumsy, insistent…
