But as I wait, minutes passing, I don’t feel the shift of the mattress. I open my eyes, looking out into the dark, and then I pull myself up, flicking on the table light beside me.
Jacob blinks owlishly. “What are you—”
“You’re sleeping there?”
He blinks again. He’s sitting upright in the large wingback chair I was sitting in earlier. There’s not an ounce of give to it, the structure of it stiff, the cushion hard and firm.
“You can’t sleep there,” I say.
He lifts an arm, rubbing at his chest, and my mouth grows dry. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but there’s something about this combination. His glasses still on his face, his posture straight and tall. His expression is reserved and distant, but he’s not wearing anything but a pair of black boxer briefs, and I don’t know why this is working for me, but it really is.
I suppose he was wearing something underneath that kilt after all.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Go to sleep.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
His lips part, a disbelieving sound escaping him.
“There’s no way you’re going to get any kind of sleep sitting like that,” I say. “We’re adults. We can share the bed.”
“I can sleep in the car tomorrow,” he says. “You’re the one who needs the rest. Since you’ll be driving.”
“So you’re going to be fine sitting in that uncomfortable chair all night?” I shake my head, deciding to change tactics. “No. I won’t be able to fall asleep like that. Knowing you’re just…awake. Staring into the darkness.” I shift, moving to the edge of the bed. “Just sleep here. You’ll stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine. It’s not that big a deal.”
Hesitation, and something else, flickers across his face.
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” I lie back down, turning to give him my back.
There’s a long minute of silence, and then the mattress dips, a soft creak of old springs as he settles on top of it. I prop myself up, twisting to switch off the lamp.
In the dark, his breathing seems louder. I can hear every smallaspect of it, the way it hitches when I lie back down. And it’s not just louder, but closer. Because as much as I promised we could both simply stay on our sides of the bed, this pull-out bed isn’t quite designed that way. This mattress—clearly past its prime—sags in the middle, pulling our bodies together. We’re not touching, but I can feel him behind me, warmth radiating off his skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the flash of memories flooding my mind.
His mouth traveling up my thigh.
The scrape of his teeth on my neck.
The scent of him then, peppery and woodsy and sinful.
The scent of him now. Clean, like soap and linen.
I squirm and it brings our limbs into contact, the back of my calf brushing his shin.
“Sorry,” I say immediately.
“It’s all right.” His voice is guttural, rough, and my cheeks flame.
“That wasn’t intentional,” I say, embarrassed. “I heard you, what you said before. That you didn’t want to talk about—”
He lets out a low groan. “Can we just go to sleep?”
I close my eyes. “Yes. Of course.”
I don’t know if he’s feelingexactlywhat I am, but he clearly doesn’t want to give in to it. I could be tempted, if he was interested, into something purely physical. Something to make this time pass by quicker. Another one-night stand. But he obviously doesn’t even like me enough forthat.
