Page 39 of Bedtime Stories
I lean down, brush a kiss against his temple, and whisper, “Goodnight, Oren.”
As I pull away, I can’t help the thought that curls low in my chest: his stories may be getting steamier, but it’s the trust threaded through them that makes me ache to stay.
God, he’s bold when he wants to be. It’s his strange mixture of shyness and forthrightness that has a chokehold on my heart.
When his breathing evens out, I linger a second longer than I should, brushing a hand over his hair. The lamplight highlights his freckles and soft mouth that makes him look younger than he is. I tuck Quackers under his arm for safekeeping, then stand, tugging my tie the rest of the way loose. At the door, I pause. He’s curled small under the covers, trusting me to guard his dreams.
I pull the bedroom door shut with care. In the quiet apartment, I resist the urge to tidy his messy desk and lock the front door softly behind me.
The drive home is a blur of streetlights and empty roads, my hand tight on the wheel. Every mile, I’m thinking of him—smooth chest, small brown nipples, the way he looked at me like I was the most trustworthy man in the world. My throat tightens.
I should be replaying depositions and prepping for court tomorrow. Instead, I’m replaying Oren shimmying into his pajamas, Oren’s laugh under his breath, Oren asking for another story.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I already know—I’m in deep.
