I blinked. “For what? Hovering while you demonstrated your many talents?”
“For ...” He shook his head, searching for words. “For letting me feel like myself again. For a few minutes.”
The ache in my chest expanded, big and bright and terrifying.
“You are yourself,” I said quietly. “Even when you forget.”
His thumb stroked once across the back of my hand, almost absently. Then he let go, fingers slipping away with a reluctance I felt all the way down my spine.
“I’ll, uh ...” He cleared his throat and rose carefully from the bed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He took a few steps backward, toward the door, as if turning his back on me might break whatever spell we’d woven. At the threshold he paused and looked back, expression unreadable in the half-light.
“Sweet dreams, Clara,” he said softly.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a long time, I didn’t move.
The room was dark except for the little pool of light from my lamp. My body still hummed, a slow, deep thrum under my skin,every nerve aware of what had just happened and who had done it to me. The sheets smelled faintly like my shampoo and his soap and something new we’d made between them.
I flopped back, staring at the ceiling, a dazed smile tugging at my mouth.
Then, beneath the floaty, postorgasmic haze, the stone of fear made itself known—a small, dense weight settling low in my ribs. This started as a way to build Wes’s confidence. Confidence to be the man he used to be ... withother women. A tiny pang of nausea rolled through me.
Now I couldn’t stand the idea.
If this was just the beginning, I was in so much more trouble than I’d thought.
