He’s still asleep. I can tell by the way his breath coasts over my forehead, a soft, even rhythm that doesn’t match the shallow tempo of mine. He smells clean and musky – soap and skin and sex and Brodie – and I’m wrapped up in it, drinking it in like it’s the only air I’ve got.
My thighs are sore. Bruised from how he took me apart last night. My hips ache from being gripped, my neck burns where he bit me, and there’s this slow pulse between my legs that’s more memory than pain.
And I should be freaking the fuck out.
Telling myself it was inappropriate, irresponsible.
Because it was.
But my whole body hums with satisfaction, as if it knows something my brain doesn’t, basking in the fact that I’m still tucked against him, his arm under my head, hand holding my shoulder in his sleep like he plans to keep me pinned right here.
Brodie.
God, he’s so warm. Weight and muscle and something I could lean into forever. And I didn’t know… I didn’t know it could feel like this. I’m whole and emptied. I gave something I didn’t know I had. And now I don’t know how to take it back.
It wasn’t just the way he moved. But the way helooked. Like he wanted to learn me by heart. This raw, steady devotion that I didn’t see coming.
It felt like being found.
Tears pool. Embarrassing shit. I’m not supposed to want this. He’s my client. My career. My biggest fucking project.
I catch the first one with the heel of my hand and swipe it away as though it were never there.
Brodie shifts in his sleep, and every part of me stills. His thumb sweeps over my skin, a lazy, unthinking stroke, and a quiet sound catches on the edge of my breath before I can swallow it down.
His rhythm changes. He’s waking up. His thumb drifts again, stroking.
His voice rumbles against my hair, gravelled with sleep. ‘Hey.’
And it’s that single word – that sleepy, unguarded murmur full of tenderness – that undoes me. It runs hot down my cheek. I bite my lip and swallow the ache.
I lay still. My head is pressed to his sternum, listening to his heartbeat. It’s the only thing keeping me together.
He stirs, and his hand comes up to cradle my face. ‘Hey, what’s all that now? You crying, Champ?’
I go stiff, and he feels it. I know he does, brow furrowing as he looks at me.
‘No,’ I lie, too fast. ‘Bit of grit in the eye.’
He cups my chin and keeps me right where he wants me. ‘Charlie.’
‘It’s nothing. Probably allergies. Dust or something.’
He swipes gently beneath my eye, chasing another tear. ‘Don’t.’
I try to draw air past the tightness beneath my ribs, but it makes it worse. So, I force myself to tilt my chin up and meet his gaze. It’s like staring straight into the sun.
‘It’s fine, Brodie. I’m fine.’ My voice is way too small.
‘You don’t cry for no reason.’
I blow out a laugh that feels more like a wince. ‘Maybe I’m just… I’m sore.’
His lips twitch, but his eyes don’t soften. ‘Sore’s one thing. This is something else.’
I shove at his pecs, try to put some distance between us, but he doesn’t let me go far. Just turns enough to look me in the eye, his thumb still brushing softly, as if he thinks stopping might tip me over.
‘Talk to me.’ His voice is rough but not harsh. ‘Don’t lock me out.’
