Her hair is still tangled around my fingers. I let it slide free—slowly.
Her headband is crooked on her forehead. It’s adorable and ridiculous and I have to bite my tongue not to laugh.
Okay. Mission accomplished. I have absolutely no reason to stay here.
I should go.
Ishould.
But—
Something feels wrong about leaving.
And right at the same time.
I glance at her face.
Smudged mascara.
Melted lipstick.
She’s going to kill me tomorrow.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And honestly, that’s not how I want to die.
I have zero clue how to remove a woman’s makeup. And there’s definitely nothing suitable in Dominic’s secluded house.
So I grab some damp wipes and pray.
I go back to the bed.
She doesn’t stir when I brush her hair aside.
“If you wake up tomorrow and murder me for this,” I whisper, “I’ll understand.”
I start with her cheeks.
Then her lashes.
Then her lips.
Slow. Careful. Surgical.
It’s harder than I expected.
The makeup is stubborn as hell, and it takes forever.
But eventually she’s clean enough that I hope her eyes won’t burn in the morning.
Her lips relax.
Her breathing deepens.
I take off her shoes—no way I’m letting her sleep in heels.
