Her fingers tighten on me.
Then she presses closer.
“Please,” she whispers, barely audible. “Please... make me feel good.”
My entire body goes hard with shock.
And hunger.
And something far more dangerous.
I stare at her in the dark, every sane instinct in me screamingto move away, to wake her, to put distance between us before I do something I can’t take back.
But she buries her face against my chest like she belongs there.
Like she remembers.
“Please,” she whispers again, voice wrecked with sleep. “I just want to feel good.”
I close my eyes.
Because if I look at her right now, really look, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
My hand lifts before I can stop it, hovering over her back.
Not touching.
Not yet.
I can feel the warmth of her through the stupid oversized hoodie, can feel the trust in this unconscious reach even if she’d rather die than offer it awake.
And that, somehow, is the cruelest part.
That even now, even after everything, some sleeping part of her still comes to me in the dark.
“Elizabeth,” I say, my voice rough enough to scrape. “You need to wake up.”
But she only presses closer and makes that small pleading sound again, fingers curling against my skin.
And lying there in the dark of my London house, with the woman I stole from another man half-wrapped around me and begging in her sleep, I realize I’m balanced on the thinnest edge of control I’ve had in years.
12
Birdie
I’m dreaming of warmth.
Not a place. Not a memory exactly. Just warmth—deep and steady and surrounding me from every side. Strong hands. A hard chest beneath my cheek. The slow drag of fingers through my hair. Safety twisted together with want so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
In the dream, I’m chasing relief from the sharp, aching emptiness that has lived inside me for so long I barely recognize myself without it. I turn into the warmth, craving more, and a name forms on my lips before I can stop it.
“Lorenzo…”
The sound of it seems to echo through the dark.
I press closer in the dream, desperate for something I can’t even name. Comfort. Escape. Oblivion. I don’t know. I only know I want to feel good for once. Just once.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice small and wrecked. “Please… make me feel good.”
