He follows suit, but the lamp stays on. The sexy shadows stay stretched across the walls. A graffiti message of everything I long for in light and dark.
He rolls onto his side to face me. I do the same.
Our heads are on separate pillows, but our faces are inches apart. Our synchronized inhales fuel our exhales.
He brings a hand to my face and drags his knuckles along my jaw, making my eyes flutter closed. “This okay?”
I nod, but don’t speak. Because even though Nash is touching my face, the ache of it spreads like a brushfire under the top layer of my skin.
He keeps doing it, dragging his knuckles along my jaw. My arm. My neck. My nose ... and not a single place where a weaker version of me would long for those knuckles to be.
I keep my eyes closed and the beige blanket clenched between my fingers.
“Hey,” he says, making my eyes open. “I meant it when I said I’d wait. This is enough.” He yawns. “Long day anyway. I’m beat.”
Before I can respond, he leans forward—thank God!—to peck me on the forehead—no!—then reaches over to turn off the lamp. He rolls onto his belly, folds his arms under the pillow, then... closes his eyes.
I have never been more disappointed in someone’s compliance in my life.
My heart is pounding.
My body is throbbing.
And he’s ... going to sleep?
And with that, a whole new round ofwhat-ifspummel into me. What if this is the only night we ever get? What if I tell him about Bennie tomorrow and he never wants me in this bed again? And we’re just going tosleep?
There are a million reasons to wait, and only a single selfish reason not to. I want this. Us. Even if just once.
My eyes adjust to the dark and trace his profile. His eyes are closed; his breathing is steady.
Is he already sleeping?This is a new skill.
I’m vibrating with need. Itching from it. I’ll never be able to sleep in this bed so close to him. I either leave this room or let myself touch him, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this room.
Still on my side, I release my death grip on the blanket and reach for him. The arm closest to me is the one covered in ink, and with a soft touch, I trace his tattoos with my index finger. Every swirl and every line. Every date and name.
The bastard doesn’t flinch.
The nerve.
I don’t care howbeathe is.
Yet him sleeping doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t change the way my fingers draw lines across his body like a road map, along his arm and down his back, or squash the way I imagine him rolling over to rip off my shirt before driving right into me.
“Nash?” I whisper.
He snorts a single snore.
What?
He’s sound asleep, and I’m so turned on I might die. Of all the scenarios I imagined for tonight, this was not one of them.
I bring my mouth to his elbow and give a quick, gentle suck.
Nothing.
My mouth travels up the entirety of his arm with licks and nibbles.
