Before I can decide if I should elbow him in the ribs or carefully disentangle myself, Raf stirs.
Breath whispers across the back of my neck, a sleepy, unguarded sound.
His fingers twitch over my breast, like muscle memory.
Then he stills.
A sharp, instant awareness ripples through him as he seems to realize where his hand is—and what part of him is pressed against me.
He goes as rigid as a statue, then slowly, carefully lifts his palm away, inch by inch, like removing evidence from a crime scene.
The tip of his finger brushes, featherlight, across my nipple, and my body lights up like a live wire.
It takes every ounce of my will power not to shudder.
I force my breathing slow.
Even. I don’t move as I fake sleep, because I don’t know what else to do.
Raf eases away, slow and controlled, tension coming off him in waves.
Then the mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed.
I don’t open my eyes, but I can tell he puts his face in his hands because I hear a low, vicious swear, spoken under his breath, like he’s furious with himself.
And it makes my stomach knot.
The mattress shifts, the floor creaking as he rises.
Then his footsteps cross the room.
The bathroom door whispers open.
The moment the bathroom door clicks shut, I roll onto my back and stare up at the cracked ceiling.
Jesus.
Sharing a bed with Raf is going to be a slow, lingering hell.
A beat of silence, then the sharp metallic hiss of a shower turning on allows the tension in my chest to release, my breath escaping along with it.
But when I close my eyes, the feeling of him in bed beside me comes rushing back—warm weight, callused palm, that thick, hard press of him against me.
I can feel it so precisely, I could trace the shape of him in my mind with perfect clarity.
I squeeze my thighs together, mortification pooling in my belly.
What is wrong with me?
I must be some dark shade of masochistic to feel anything for Raf after the pain he caused me—after the sledgehammer he took to my life.
But I can’t lie to myself.
I shift, and the wet heat between my legs is unmistakable.
The need is sharp and humiliating, a pulse low in my belly that has everything to do with my new fake husband.
Without thinking, I reach between my thighs, fingers sliding over damp, swollen flesh, and my body jolts with need.
