An hour later, Henry’s pain medicine and warm bath had helped enough that he was able to sleep.
I didn’t expect Whit to still be there, but when I entered the kitchen, he was just wiping down the counter.
“Thank you,” I said, my weariness evident in my voice. “I appreciate you doing this.”
He slung the damp dish towel over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, studying me again. “You look exhausted.”
I laughed. “Thanks.”
He gave me a wry look, tossed the towel aside, then took my hand and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. I melted into him, slipping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek to his chest.
God, it felt so damnedgoodjust to be held, comforted for once, to feel like everything was going to be okay. I don’t know how long we stood this way. But for just that short space of time, I wasn’t scared or overwhelmed or alone.
At some point, Whit rested his cheek against the top of my head. His arms around me tightened. And what had been a comforting hug suddenly became something more. My fingers splayed on his back, feeling the corded muscle beneath his shirt.
There was a shift in the air between us, a charge that ignited. His heartbeat accelerated, matching my own. Our breath synced, shallow, quickening. A warmth unfurled inside me, want and hunger and longing I hadn’t experienced in years.Desire. Pure and unmistakable. Iwantedhim.Neededhim.
His hands drifted down to my hips, his fingers curling into fists, gripping the fabric of my sundress. In my mind, I saw him pulling it over my head, tossing it aside, kissing me breathless, taking me right there on the kitchen table…
In reality, he let out a low, strangled groan and stepped back, putting distance between us. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, as if meeting my eyes might break something open.
“I should go,” he practically growled, his voice rough.
A shiver raced through me at the deep rumble of his voice. “Whit—”
Before I could tell him it was okay, that I wanted him too, he strode from the kitchen without looking back. A moment later, the apartment door closed.
I gripped the back of a chair to keep from sinking to the floor, holding on until the rush of warring emotions I experienced at where things hadalmostgone and then his abrupt departure had passed.
When I could feel my knees again, I drifted into the living room, hoping I’d see him sitting there on the couch, his back stiff, his hands clasped like before. But he wasn’t there. And a great, gaping hole opened up in the center of my chest.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “Get a grip, Zellie.”
As I showered, I tried not to think about how his arms felt around me, the heat of his body against mine, how badly I’d wanted to feel his kiss, how longing had surged through me, how I burned for his touch. But the fantasy that had played in my mind in the kitchen replayed in my head, leaving me gasping and shuddering as my hands explored my body as I imagined his would.
But it wasn’t nearly enough.
I fell into a fitful sleep, my dreams haunted by fantasies of Whit instead of nightmares. Which was almost worse. The dreams of Whit were torture. I woke several times, tangled in my sheets, drenched in sweat, until finally exhaustion dragged me under.
I didn’t feel the bed shaking at first. But as I slowly came awake, I realized my mattress was shifting, moving horizontally in a slow rhythm as if someone was standing beside the bed, pushing the side of the mattress. And then it abruptly stopped.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling, muscles tensed, adrenaline spiking, preparing me for fight or flight as I waited to see what would happen next. Minutes passed. Nothing.
My eyes drifted shut again.
Then something grabbed my leg and shook me so hard that my left hip rocked up off the mattress.
I bolted upright with a gasp, my heart slamming against my chest, fully expecting someone to be standing near my bed. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw a shadow slinking along the wall. I clicked on my bedside lamp.
No one.
I blew out a shaky breath and ran my fingers through my hair.
“What a freaking night,” I muttered, extricating myself from my sheets, and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
I glanced at the clock.
3 a.m.
