Page 74 of Holding Penalty

“Not usually,” I answer truthfully.

Piper yawns, a breathy, musical sound that makes my chest feel light. “Just with me, huh?”

“Maybe,” I answer, my voice thick and tired, my eyelids already too heavy to keep open. “Maybe just with my wife.”

Soft morning light hits the front of my eyelids, and my consciousness slowly turns on.

I’m on my back, sprawled out, and the first thing I realize is that I feel more rested and relaxed than I have in a long, long time.

No, it’s more than that. There’s a thrum of pleasure and satisfaction vibrating through me that simply a good night’s sleep—even the best night’s sleep—couldn’t be responsible for.

But what is it? How do I feel so good, so comfortable, so content?

There’s something against me. A soft, supple, warm pressure just at my side. My arm’s looped around it, tucking it close to me. And there’s something silky and smooth feathering in soft strands across my bare chest.

But my brain is nothing but a pleasant buzz of static, and I don’t even think to ask myself what it is, or why it’s here in my bed. I just pull in a deep breath and luxuriate in this feeling.

I let myself float along the wave of passing time like a cloud drifting through a clear sky for I don’t know how long. But, eventually, inevitably, the different parts of my brain start to come to life.

I remember why I’m in my bed, and not on the couch. Because Piper insisted on me sleeping here, because of my hurt back. She literally forced me to. And then I pulled her into bed with me and⁠—

It’s her. That pressure and weight and warmth at my side that feels otherworldly good. It’s Piper, snuggled against me, her hair dusting my bare torso as we lie in bed together.

Her leg is looped over mine, her thigh resting on the top of my leg, dangerously close to my full and stiff morning erection.

The responsible, decision-making part of my brain is starting to rustle awake, sending out signals that this isn’t good. There’s a whisper in the recesses of my mind telling me that I’m blatantly stepping over way too many boundaries right now, and enjoying it way too much.

But the voice is too distant, and its vibrations barely carry through a fog of sleep and comfort that’s still thick through my consciousness.

Instead of listening to the tiny voice of reason in my head, I listen to the urges sweeping through my body. I let the pads of my fingers press into Piper’s soft skin, my hand resting on her shoulder that’s bare thanks to her strappy tank top, and I tuck her closer.

I don’t miss much about Bridgett or our relationship. Not really. But waking up next to someone, feeling their warmth and closeness against me as the first sign of day?

I let out a pleased sigh. “I missed this.” I can hear the rumble of my voice, the words pulled from my throat without my volition, in a dreamy daze.

But my own voice hitting my ears does something to me that the smaller voice in my head couldn’t. It cuts through the fog, right to a part of my brain that instantly rings an alarm bell.

A cold, sober feeling closes over me, and my eyes shoot open. This isn’t good at all. We still have months to go before this fake marriage ends, and blurring lines like this is the surest path to disaster.

I fling off the covers and get out of bed as quickly as I can, trying not to wake Piper as I disentangle myself from her.

I hear Piper starting to move as I walk out of the bedroom, but I don’t turn around. Because right now, I need to screw my head back on right and remind myself that this so-called marriage is fake. That no feelings—physical or emotional—were ever supposed to be involved.

And if I see my wife sitting up in bed first thing in the morning, that’s not going to be easy.

34

PIPER

I’m pulling out all the stops to distract myself this afternoon.

I’ve been baking for a couple hours, experimenting with some new cookie recipes I’ve had in mind for a while. I’ve also got my headphones on, jamming out to some playlists that Hallie sent me.

But it’s still not enough distraction to keep me from thinking about how it felt to wake up with my head on Nash’s chest this morning.

Nope, not even close.

It’s not just feeling the firm slab of Nash’s chest muscle on my cheek that I can’t get out of my head, either. It’s the way that chest rumbled, the vibration accompanied by the throaty rasp of his voice when he whispered, I missed this.