comfortable,” he explains from behind me.
I’ve spent every night since the mudslide in a twin-sized hospital bed. The double in his spare room will already be plenty big in comparison.
“The bed in your spare room will be fine and you already moved the TV there,” I argue.
“My dad upgraded the TV in their den. I brought their old one back with me to go in here. It was bigger than the one I had.”
No, I cannot sleep in his bed.
“I’ll pull the blankets back,” he says, moving past me and straight to his bed.
My brain cries out for him not to touch the sheets I’ll need to sleep against. It will be impossible to block him from my thoughts if they smell like him. I banish that thought, realizing that by being in his house in the first place has already done that. The whole place smells like his cologne, somehow clean, woodsy and spicy all at the same time.
Being surrounded by the subtle hints of his scent is torture. I know exactly where that scent is the strongest: on his skin. Worse, I know what each and every one of those places taste like. I had sought them out, pushed him back onto my bed and licked, kissed, and nibbled his skin in search of the places where his irresistible scent was the strongest.
Gulping, I focus on my lap, praying that he can’t see how his nearness still affects me. That’s why I’m not ready when his hand is suddenly under me, lifting me up as his other arm cradles me against his chest. He then settles me gently onto his bed.
This is the first time I’ve been in his bed. All of our time together had been spent at my place. That should have been a red flag that he was trying to hide our . . . relationship is not the right word, our whatever we were.
“This is weird,” I murmur, my right hand pulling away from the fabric of his sheets as if it burns.
He ignores me. “I’ll be right back with the TV.”
I stare at the spot were seconds ago he stood. What would he do if I got back into my chair and wheeled myself to his spare room? Would he just pick me up and carry me back here? I can’t sleep in his bed. I can barely wrap my brain around the idea of sleeping in his apartment at all.
His bed? No.
I was under the impression I’d be in his spare room. Did that plan somehow change when he was at his parents? That seems like a cruel and unusual punishment. My head against his pillows? Does someone hate me?
That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with. It’s not fair to be tempted considering what he did. The thing that scares me the most though is his motivation. Is the only reason he’s doing all of this because he feels guilty?
It won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he was the reason I was up at the cabin in the first place. Are his visits and his need to take care of me now coming from him feeling obligated to?
“This won’t take long to set up,” he says, walking back through the door, a decent-sized flat screen TV in his hands.
It was definitely bigger than the one currently in the spare room.
He keeps talking. “I have Netflix and all the movie channels or if you want, I can rent something on pay per view.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I softly argue.
He straightens a cord that goes from the cable box to his TV still in his hand. “I know that. I want to do this.”
“What if I don’t want you to do this?” I press.
“Set up the TV?” he asks with a teasing smile.
He wants me to come out and say it.
“Take care of me.”
He drops the cord and crosses the room to me.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he places a hand on either side of my neck, his thumbs coming to rest below my ears. “I want to take care of you and I want you in my bed, long after your casts come off.”
He did not just say that.
I stare at him. Inside my chest I can actually feel my heart twist. How can one beating jumble of flesh melt and freeze all at the same time? His words are almost irresistible but I know what happened to Eve after she
I’ve spent every night since the mudslide in a twin-sized hospital bed. The double in his spare room will already be plenty big in comparison.
“The bed in your spare room will be fine and you already moved the TV there,” I argue.
“My dad upgraded the TV in their den. I brought their old one back with me to go in here. It was bigger than the one I had.”
No, I cannot sleep in his bed.
“I’ll pull the blankets back,” he says, moving past me and straight to his bed.
My brain cries out for him not to touch the sheets I’ll need to sleep against. It will be impossible to block him from my thoughts if they smell like him. I banish that thought, realizing that by being in his house in the first place has already done that. The whole place smells like his cologne, somehow clean, woodsy and spicy all at the same time.
Being surrounded by the subtle hints of his scent is torture. I know exactly where that scent is the strongest: on his skin. Worse, I know what each and every one of those places taste like. I had sought them out, pushed him back onto my bed and licked, kissed, and nibbled his skin in search of the places where his irresistible scent was the strongest.
Gulping, I focus on my lap, praying that he can’t see how his nearness still affects me. That’s why I’m not ready when his hand is suddenly under me, lifting me up as his other arm cradles me against his chest. He then settles me gently onto his bed.
This is the first time I’ve been in his bed. All of our time together had been spent at my place. That should have been a red flag that he was trying to hide our . . . relationship is not the right word, our whatever we were.
“This is weird,” I murmur, my right hand pulling away from the fabric of his sheets as if it burns.
He ignores me. “I’ll be right back with the TV.”
I stare at the spot were seconds ago he stood. What would he do if I got back into my chair and wheeled myself to his spare room? Would he just pick me up and carry me back here? I can’t sleep in his bed. I can barely wrap my brain around the idea of sleeping in his apartment at all.
His bed? No.
I was under the impression I’d be in his spare room. Did that plan somehow change when he was at his parents? That seems like a cruel and unusual punishment. My head against his pillows? Does someone hate me?
That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with. It’s not fair to be tempted considering what he did. The thing that scares me the most though is his motivation. Is the only reason he’s doing all of this because he feels guilty?
It won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he was the reason I was up at the cabin in the first place. Are his visits and his need to take care of me now coming from him feeling obligated to?
“This won’t take long to set up,” he says, walking back through the door, a decent-sized flat screen TV in his hands.
It was definitely bigger than the one currently in the spare room.
He keeps talking. “I have Netflix and all the movie channels or if you want, I can rent something on pay per view.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I softly argue.
He straightens a cord that goes from the cable box to his TV still in his hand. “I know that. I want to do this.”
“What if I don’t want you to do this?” I press.
“Set up the TV?” he asks with a teasing smile.
He wants me to come out and say it.
“Take care of me.”
He drops the cord and crosses the room to me.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he places a hand on either side of my neck, his thumbs coming to rest below my ears. “I want to take care of you and I want you in my bed, long after your casts come off.”
He did not just say that.
I stare at him. Inside my chest I can actually feel my heart twist. How can one beating jumble of flesh melt and freeze all at the same time? His words are almost irresistible but I know what happened to Eve after she
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