It doesn’t matter the gender; consent is a fundamental requirement for any relationship, including those based solely on friendship.
For the length of time it takes for Grayson to join me on the mattress, anyone would swear I asked him to be the big spoon.
I realize some of the delay was Grayson switching his dress shirt and trousers for boxers and an undershirt when he slips under the sheets next to me. His clothing is as soft as a feather and lulls me even closer to sleep.
“I’ll place one arm under you and drape the other near your stomach.”
Again, he waits for my approval before doing as suggested. Even with only one of his hands accepting some of the weight in my stomach, it is as satisfying this time around as it was earlier. It feels incredible, and I moan in appreciation of the weightlessness.
With his spare hand, Grayson arches me back until my achy hip no longer bears the weight that his hand isn’t accepting. Then he places a gap between my thighs with his knee.
“How does that feel?”
“Good.Sogood.” My words are more moans than straight-up confirmations.
The mad beat of his heart rages against my back when I scoot back until the arm wedged under me can act like the pillow I use to make sure I don’t roll onto my stomach partway through the night.
Within two quick shuffles, Grayson’s body swamps me, and I’ve never felt warmer or more comfortable. More protected.
When the baby shows his or her appreciation for the additional space, Grayson’s breathy exhale ruffles the hairs at the nape of my neck, though that’s the entirety of his response to the excessive wiggling of my midsection.
I’d look more deeply into his unusual quiet if the steady beat of his heart and the soothing rhythm of his breaths didn’t lull me into a peaceful and uninterrupted slumber.
15
GRAYSON
When I wake up minus the headache that’s plagued me throughout my adult life, I forget where I am. The comfort of a bed is unfamiliar—as is the scent of lavender and vanilla filling my nostrils. I’ve smelled it before. Multiple times. But it was never this close or as potent. It practically coats my skin, and it stretches my boxer shorts as they struggle to contain my morning wood.
When soft curls brush my chin, and my nostrils flare to suck in the scent of their shampoo, it hits me. I am in Macy’s bed. My arm hangs over her swollen belly, and she has clamped her legs around my thigh, as if she is seconds from riding it to climax station.
I am the definition of the body pillow Alex insists Regan will never have—pregnant or not. He won’t let anything come between them. Even something synthetically made.
Guilt washes over me when the sun filtering through the curtains announces the day is well on its way. I was only supposed to stay until Macy fell asleep, but exhaustion must have also overcome me. And not for a little while, either. If theclock on the bedside table is correct, I slept for almost seven hours.
What the fuck am I doing? I’m supposed to be focusing on finding Cameron and Kendall, not working out why my body responded the way it did when Macy moaned within a second of me placing my hands on her.
I was hard in an instant and struggling to remember that we aren’t sharing an apartment because we’re a couple. We are coworkers desperate to find long-lost loved ones.
The way I acted last night isn’t fair to either Macy or Cameron, and it sees me eager to sulk out of bed like I did the kitchen last night when Macy’s interrogation reminded me that I was the bureau’s prime suspect for the first six weeks of Cameron’s kidnapping.
With more care than I’m used to showing of late, I slide my arm out from beneath Macy, trying not to wake her. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake up.
I stand at her bedside for a minute, watching her sleep. Guilt is still in abundance, though it isn’t solely for Cameron this morning. Macy appears peaceful, yet also vulnerable.
Her vulnerability stirs something inside me that I’ve forever struggled to contain when she is present. I’d give anything to protect her from additional harm and to be there for her, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m taking advantage of the situation. That I am exploiting her vulnerability more than I’m attempting to eradicate it.
Just because she isn’t seeking a relationship doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve one. This also isn’t a situation where I can burn off some restlessness, then close the door I forced open as if nothing happened.
Macy is my colleague and friend. I can’t chew her up and spit her out as if she means nothing to me, but that’s precisely howany adult interactions I’ve had since Cameron’s disappearance ended.
Needing to clear my head, I pull on a pair of black shorts over my boxer shorts and then grab my running shoes from under the hallway table. I need to burn off the restless energy that’s rapidly building inside me, and I need to do it now before I stupidly believe the solution to my predicament is faintly snoring next to me.
The air is crisp after a recent downpour, and I suck it down while pounding the pavement. I push myself hard, striving to outrun the guilt and confusion bombarding me. The streets are quiet since most residents are already at work, and in minutes, I lose myself to the rhythm of my strides.
I’m unsure of the distance I cover, but when I finish, I’m soaked in sweat and my muscles ache.
Arching up, I rest my hands on my head and strive to catch my breath. The physical exertion has helped, but the guilt is still there, gnawing at me. It forces me to wear off another handful of miles on my running shoes before I eventually give in and call it a day.
