I blink. Then I pull away from him so fast, I nearly fall on my ass. I would have if Court doesn’t apparently have the reflexes of a cat, grabbing me before I can tumble to the floor.
“Pixie.”
I ignore the chiding in his voice and push to a stand, brushing his hands off me. “You should go.”
“I didn’t mean that as a rejection, Ren. It's just…”
“It’s just that this isn’t actually going to go anywhere and we both know it. You’re right. We shouldn’t take this any further. We shouldn’t have let it go this far. It was a mistake.”
I see him flinch, and I know exactly how he’s feeling. Hadn’t I felt that too after Forsythe told me the same thing?
But hurt feelings aside, it doesn’t change anything about our situations. He’s still him, and I’m still me.
I fold my arms over my stomach. “I really think you should go.”
He stares up at me looking adorably kiss rumpled. Hair standing on end, lips red and swollen. Erection pressing against the fly of his jeans.
Finally he sighs and pushes to his feet. “I don’t want to leave you.”
I snort. “Sure, you don’t.” I know I’m being unkind. But I’m feeling far too fucking vulnerable right now. Not only did I open up to him about my past trauma, but I also just came on his fingers. The first orgasm I’ve had that wasn’t self-inflicted in fucking years. And it was with someone who can’t—or won’t—choose me.
Court stares at me hard for a moment before he scrubs a hand down his face, and then holds it out to me. “Come on.”
I stare at him then his palm. “What?”
His fingers wiggle, demanding. And I find my own hand raising, sliding against his. He grips me and then tugs me over to the bed, pulling back the covers and motioning for me to get in.
Confused, I do as he urges, then watch as he moves around my cabana, flicking off lights, checking the locks on the doors, before he shucks off his shirt and his pants and thenclimbs in next to me.
What is even happening right now?
“Come here, Pix,” he murmurs, hooking one muscled arm around my waist and dragging me into his embrace. He curls around me, nose pressing into my hair, arms holding me tight. One of his legs goes over mine, until he’s clutching me like a child clutching their favorite stuffy.
“Court?” I murmur into his chest. His bare chest. Right there in front of me. Warm and smooth and smelling like his soap.
“Hmm?”
“What-what are you doing?”
One hand slides up and down my spine, soothing the tension coursing through my body. “I told you I didn’t want to leave you. So I’m not.”
My throat gets tight, but I force the words out on a croak. “Not tonight at least.”
“Not tonight,” he agrees. He doesn’t tack on ‘not ever’ like I’m secretly hoping he will. He doesn’t make promises he’s not going to keep. Which I suppose is a comfort in and of itself. I can trust that he won’t lie to me. That he won’t give me false hope. Even if it would be the easier option.
This is the most he can offer me.
“Go to sleep, Pix,” he murmurs, already sounding halfway there himself.
It takes a while for me to drift off. I haven’t actually slept next to a man in… well, ever. Not like this. Not with his body pressed to mine, solid and warm, his arm heavy around my waist, his breath puffing softly over my hair and forehead.
Every small movement makes me hyperaware of him. The rise and fall of his chest against my back, of the way his leg hooks over mine like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
But slowly, breath by breath, my muscles loosen. The tight knot in my chest eases. My thoughts blur at the edges, exhaustion finally winning out over anxiety and longing and everything I’m trying so hard not to feel.
Just as sleep starts to pull me under, his mouth brushes my hair, barely there, and he murmurs so quietly it feels like he doesn’t mean for me to hear, “Sleep, Pix. I’ve got you. I always do.”
The words sink into me, warm and heavy and dangerous.
