I chuckle. “For once, nothing. My head is quiet. It’s nice.”
“Yeah?”
I smile and lick my lips as I can’t help but take in how good it feels to have Troy molded to me on the couch. How my body aches for more, and once again another set of panties is destroyed. “Yeah.”
Troy grins and leans down and kisses me again. It’s soft and makes me feel safe, but it’s still toe-curling.
“Troy?”
“Yeah?” He kisses my jaw, down my neck, toward my ear.
“I’m not ready for…”
“Shhh. We’re taking this slow, okay.”
I swallow and nod. Relieved and a little annoyed, he doesn’t push it further. But I mentally slap myself for my craziness. There is one thing I want. I’m so tired, but I’ll sleep better if he does this.
A deep inhale helps me build up courage, and a slow exhale steadies me. “Will you… Um, will you sleep in my bed with me tonight? Just sleep. I’m so tired.”
Troy leans back and gives me a soft gaze and a sweet smile. “Hell yeah.”
We chuckle, and I stand, grabbing his hand, waiting for him to turn off the TV, and before I know it. I’m curled in his arms, feeling safe and warm, and I’m out like a light.
Chapter 9
Troy
Saturday morning, and I haven't slept in my bed since Monday.
Not once.
Every night this week, Ainsley's come home from her shift, woke me from the couch and led me to her room and crawled into her bed beside me, and fallen asleep with her head on my chest and my arm wrapped around her. We haven't done more than kiss—soft, sweet kisses that leave me aching for more but never pushing past what she's ready for.
And I wouldn't change a damn thing.
Because now I have her.
Not completely. Not yet. But enough that I can feel the walls coming down, brick by brick. Enough that she reaches for me in her sleep and whispers my name when she's dreaming. Enough that I know, without a doubt, this woman is mine.
I'm standing in the kitchen at seven-thirty, trying to be quiet. She didn't get home until three this morning—Friday nights arebrutal at The Lucky Tap—and I want her to sleep as long as she needs.
The coffee pot gurgles as I lean against the counter, scrolling through my phone. Kevin texted earlier asking if I wanted to grab lunch, but I already know my answer. I'm not leaving this house unless Ainsley's with me.
I've got it bad.
Worse than bad.
I'm completely gone for this woman.
Footsteps pad down the hallway, and I look up.
Ainsley shuffles into the kitchen, and my breath catches.
She's wearing one of my T-shirts—the gray Army one I left on her bedroom floor Thursday night. It swallows her whole, falling to mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder. Her hair's a mess of dark curls, pillow-creased and wild. No makeup, eyes still heavy with sleep, cheeks flushed pink.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Morning," I say, voice rougher than I'd like.
