Page 12 of Worth the Fight

“Grady! Grady! Wake up!”

He flings his arm back as I try to shake his shoulders and jar him awake. He struggles against me while that horrible keening sound continues in the back of his throat. I climb onto the bed, uncertain of what to do but positive I can’t let him continue with this nightmare.

“No. Please. No,” he murmurs as he writhes from side to side and I struggle to calm him. He’s too strong and shifts suddenly so I fall somewhat on top of him. I can sense the minute he wakes and comes to. His body tenses. There’s a quick intake of breath. His hand holding my wrist relaxes.

“Dylan?” It’s a question, as if he needs to understand why I’m sitting here, straddling him in his bed.

The light from the hallway casts light over his face and makes the sheen of sweat covering his chest noticeable. Our eyes meet, his glassy and curious. “You were having a nightmare. I tried to . . .”

He clears his throat, and I can see him try to shake off whatever ghosts of the dream still cling to him. “I . . .” He brings his hand up to scrub over his face. “It was just a bad dream. Sorry to wake you.” The unbothered tone in his voice contrasts with the struggle of emotion in his expression.

When he lowers his hand and meets my eyes, there is more in the depths of them—vulnerability, fear, shame, confusion—but he blinks it away as quickly as it flashes.

“Are you okay? Can I do anything to help you?”

“No. It’s . . . I get them often.”

And it’s in this moment—the one where his eyes try to avert from mine so I don’t see too much and slowly run their way down my torso—that I’m more than aware of what pajamas I have on. A tank top and flimsy shorts that could double as panties.

His breath stutters again, but it has nothing to do with his nightmare. His dick stirs to life beneath me. There is a moment of suspended disbelief that passes in slow motion as we realize what is happening and neither of us is sure if we should stop it.

And then, just as quickly, his hands are on my torso pushing me as I’m scrambling off him. Standing beside the bed, I cross my arms over my chest to hide my nipples, which are hard and needy and reflect exactly where my thoughts went.

“I’m sorry.” We both say in unison and then laugh, nerves tingeing the edges.

“I didn’t mean . . . I hope you’re okay.” There is a long, awkward pause before I stammer out, “I’m just going to go now.”

I make my way to the door, embarrassment staining my cheeks and modesty having me wish I had my robe to cover up.

“Dylan. Wait.”

When I pause and turn to face him, Grady is sitting up in bed, a sheet draped over his waist, his hair a total mess. My first coherent thought is: I was right. He looks every bit as mouth-wateringly perfect as that eight-pack of abs beneath his shirt hinted at the other day. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry . . . for waking you up . . . for, you know.” He motions his hand at the space between him and me as a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth that has me wanting to bolt when my feet want to stay.

“It’s, uh, natural.”

Oh my God. Did I actually just say that?

He chuckles. “Something like that. You wanna turn around for a sec?” He motions his finger in a circle.

“For what?”

“Because I’m naked beneath the sheet, and since I’m planning on grabbing a drink of water from the kitchen, you might get an eyeful when I do.” He bites the side of his cheek, trying to fight the arrogance in his smirk. “I couldn’t care less . . . but, uh, you might.”

“Oh, yes. Sure.”

Feeling like an idiot, I walk from his room and down the hall to mine. My mind keeps reliving the thought of him naked with his dick hardening beneath me. My body does too.

“Christ,” I murmur as I grab my robe and pull it tight around me.

It’s normal to have that simmering ache in my lower belly after straddling a man, an extremely good-looking man, right?

He’s already in the kitchen when I make my way out, T-shirt and shorts on, and a glass of amber liquid in his hands. The lines of his face etched with the unknown.

“I needed something stiffer than water. Want some?” He holds his glass out to me, and I take a sip, fighting the urge to swear when the burn hits my throat.

“That’s good for me, thanks.”