“Make this into something.” My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “I was asleep. It didn’t mean anything.”
His gaze drops briefly to the blanket twisted around my legs, then lifts again. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
My temper sparks, partly because he’s wrong to say it and partly because he isn’t. “You are unbelievable.”
“And you were begging for me five minutes ago.”
The words hit like a slap. I freeze. He seems to realize immediately he shouldn’t have said it, but by then it’s too late.
My mouth falls open. “I was what?”
His jaw locks.
Oh God. The dream flashes through me again in a rush—heat, aching need, his name. I want the floor to open beneath me.
Instead, I grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him.
He catches it one-handed against his chest.
“Get out,” I hiss.
“This is my bed.”
“Then I’ll get out.”
I throw the blankets back and start to climb over the side, but Lorenzo is faster. He catches my wrist and the contact sends a sharp pulse through me that has nothing to do with anger.
“Elizabeth.”
“Let go.”
“Listen to me.”
“I would rather die.”
A beat passes.
Then, very quietly, he says, “I didn’t touch you.”
I still. His fingers loosen around my wrist, but he doesn’t drop it entirely. His eyes are on mine now, dark and serious and stripped of everything but the truth.
“You climbed on me in your sleep,” he says. “You reached for me. You said my name.” His voice roughens at the edges. “And I didn’t touch you.”
There is something almost unbearable in the effort I can hear beneath those words. Something restrained. Controlled. Something that cost him.
Slowly, I pull my hand free and he lets me.
I look down at the sheets.
“Okay,” I whisper.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not peace. But it’s the closest thing to honesty I can manage. I slide off the bed and stand, my legs unsteady beneath me. Lorenzo watches me from the mattress, bare-chested and dangerous and far too close even from several feet away.
“Elizabeth.”
I don’t look at him.
“What?”
