So instead he said, “This is whatever you want it to be.”
She ran a hand through his black hair, her nails tickling his scalp. “Is it?”
He leaned his forehead against her stomach, closing his eyes and nodding against her skin.
She laughed softly, but he could hear how it was forced. “Does that mean I can stay until the morning?”
Heat pooled low in his belly even as something in his chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. His past decisions, those women Emma had watched through her window—they left a veneer on this. He hadn’t considered it, but now it was impossible to ignore. Did she really think he saw her like those other women? That she hadn’t eclipsed them all even before last night?
His grip on her hips tightened. But he swallowed his frustration down. He’d let her take the lead here. And the morning was a good place to start.
“You better be here in the morning.”
“Yeah?” she breathed, a tinge of relief in her voice.
He looked up at her. “Yeah.”
She lifted one shoulder, a slight shrug like she was trying to be nonchalant. “Okay.”
He laughed softly. “Are you done with that ice cream?”
“Well, it is really good,” she mused. “And the carton is almost empty anyway so it’s not really worth putting back in the freezer…”
He nodded, even as he took it from her and put it on the nightstand. Then he took her hand, tugging her back down onto the bed. She was trying to bite back a smile and failing, her dark hair spread out like a halo on the pillow.
He could feel himself getting lost in the moment again, but he didn’t want to rush things. Last night was fast. It was fucking fantastic, but it was fast. She made him feel wild and delirious and it felt so damn good that he had given into it then, but now it felt too greedy. His body ached to move, to touch, but he held himself back, his face hovering just a few inches from her own.
“What?” she whispered.
“Emma Woodhouse,” he hummed. “In my bed.”
She laughed softly. “Pretty crazy.”
“Is it okay?”
“Well, if we’re really being honest…”
“We are.” He brushed a few strands of hair off her forehead.
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Then explain to me why you only have two pillows for this entire California King–sized bed? No decorative throws? Not even a nice embroidered lumbar pillow? What’s wrong with you?”
He chuckled and rolled to the side, leaning on one elbow to look at her. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
She huffed dramatically, but when she turned to face him again,her amused expression became more serious. A moment passed before she rested a hand on his cheek. He relaxed into her touch, letting her fingers caress the stubble along his jaw.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with you at all.”
He offered her a wry smile. “I don’t know about that. I’ve blamed you and lectured you.”
“You’ve been honest with me,” she corrected him. “And I’ve been honest right back.”
“Don’t ever stop, either.” He turned his head enough to kiss her palm.
“Okay,” she breathed. “I hate the pillows on your bed.”
His smile broadened. “And I can’t believe you turned down that job you worked months to get.”
She pulled her hand away, mock-indignation on her face. “Hey! I’m proud of myself, actually!”
