“No.”
“Then what do you like for aftercare?” I ask again. I don’t think I’ve ever been an ungrateful lover. But if the man stays over after an encounter, rolling over to sleep is the extent of what happens. With Tristan, I want to do better than that.
“I’m fine.” He soaps up quickly, his cock hardening again. One hand wrapped around it, he raises a brow.
I turn on my toes. “I’ve already showered!”
I hear his deep chuckle, so I know he’s only joking.
My bedsheets are cool under my touch. The noise of Tristan in the shower helps me drift when I feel the mattress dip.
Tristan is in my bed.
“Oh.”
His head snaps up at my reaction.
“You want to sleep in the bed?” I ask, needing to clarify his intent.
“That okay?” he asks slowly.
“No, yeah,” I reply quickly. He lifts a brow. “No, I just mean. . . Of course you deserve a cuddle.”
I reach a hand out, stretching over the bed, and place my hand right on top of his heart. That’s comforting, right?
He bites down on his lip. “You don’t like cuddling, do you?”
I smush my face into the pillow. “I’m just not much of a touchy-feely person. But I get it. I mean, you deserve to feel taken care of after all of that. . . hard work.”
Did I just thank him for fucking me in the arse?
He cradles the back of his head. “If I’m fucking you, then I want to share a bed. But if that freaks you out or you need the space, then tell me. I can handle it.”
“I want you to stay in the bed.” It’s the highlight of my life. “I don’t want you to get upset because I don’t like spooning, is all.”
I separate our pillows by a few inches and then draw an imaginary line down the middle, between us, so he understands the boundary.
“I won’t touch you if you don’t touch me,” he promises, not annoyed that I’m not a cuddler. The few past boyfriends I’ve had in the past thought it meant I didn’t like them. Or that I wasn’t feminine enough because I didn’t like being the little spoon.
“Good night, Tris.”
“Night, Iz baby.”
I smush my face to my pillow, hiding my smile.
I’m drifting off into wonderland when I open my eyes and seeSammie’s ghost.
She doesn’t look like how she normally does. She’s not sitting or standing. She’s lying, floating beside the bed, her eyes vacantly staring at me.
My body goes cold. I roll over in the bed.
“I warned you not to get handsy,” he rasps in a sleepy voice. But he lifts his arm, tucking me into his side where I fit perfectly.
CHAPTER 21
Isolde
Sunlight streams in, the bed perfectly comfortable, the bedsheets pulled up.
