Page 89 of Bridesmaid By Chance
“I’m going to take a quick shower while they hook you up, okay?”
He glances up at me, and I can see it in his eyes that he doesn’t want me to leave. Which is hilarious to me, because here is this man, this strong alpha man, brought to his knees by some food poisoning.
He’s needy, clingy, and flat-out pathetic.
Yet here I am, at his beck and call. Can’t say that I’m proud of what I’m about to say, but I like the neediness. I live for his clingy arms. And I enjoy watching just how pathetic he is when I shift away. Like I said, not proud of it, but it’s true. It’s nice to be wanted.
“Or I can stay here with you,” I say while I take a seat back on the couch and let him rest his head on my lap.
“Can you please turn to your back?” the nurse asks, and he does, very slowly. I rest my hand on his chest and gently run my thumb over his pec, while my other hand continues to run through his hair, something I’ve found he really enjoys.
The nurses get to work finding a vein, poking him, and setting him up with some fluids. Once they hang the IV bag up, they tell us they’re going to step outside and come back to check on us in a little while. I give them a key card, so they can come in easily.
Once the door is shut, I ask, “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, his eyes drifting shut.
“Tired?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I can let you sleep if you want.”
“Why do you keep trying to get away from me?” he asks, his eyes peeking open to look up at me.
“I’m not, just wanting to give you your space.”
“Isn’t it obvious, Sloane?” he says in his delirium. “I don’t want space from you.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” he says on a sigh. “All I know is I can’t have you.”
“Something you don’t seem to want me to forget.”
“You can’t forget,” he says. “Because when I slip up, I need you to remind me.”
“Slip up?” I ask.
He nods and closes his eyes. “It’s bound to happen. No way in hell I can hold out. You need to remind me.”
Slip up? Remind him?
Is he insane? As if I would ever stop him from making a move. Melva’s plan be damned.
“And if I don’t?” I ask as my fingers stroke his luscious hair.
“Then we’re fucked. So…you need to be the moral compass.”
“I don’t like that responsibility.”
“Someone needs to be responsible.”
“I don’t know, you’re doing a pretty good job,” I say.
“I hate it. I don’t want to be responsible.”
Neither do I.
