I don’t go any further. She won’t be comfortable in her clothes, but I don’t want her waking up thinking someone took advantage of her.
I pull the blanket over her, tuck the sides.
Yes, I look like one of those idiots.
But I’m not.
I’m Cohen “pain-in-the-ass” Becker, as Sloane likes to remind me.
And apparently the rest of the world agrees.
I take a step back.
This time, I really should go.
But then I make the mistake of looking at her a second too long.
She murmurs in her sleep:
“I can’t…”
Punch.
Straight to the ribs.
Yeah. I know exactly what she means.
I lean forward—not touching her—just close enough to lose air.
My lungs forget how to function.
I close my eyes for one second, breath shattering on the way out.
I never meant to hurt her.
Never meant to confuse her.
Never meant to suffocate her.
Apparently, I’m a complete idiot who can’t keep it in his pants.
Not even in my thoughts.
Not even in my dreams.
“It’s a little late for that, Angel,” I whisper—too soft for her to hear.
I turn away.
One step toward the door—
Then it happens.
A hand.
Soft.
Warm.
