Page 96 of Impulse Control
His grin was immediate and entirely unrepentant. “I like how you think.”
Before I could decide whether I’d been serious or just teasing, he was already swinging his legs off the bed and lifting me with him, my laugh turning into a surprised squeak as he carried me toward the bathroom.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, the world narrowing to the warmth of his body and the promise in his smile.
I’d meant it as a joke.
Now I was more than ready to drown in it.
Chapter
Nineteen
DOMINIC
Iwoke up in Paris after an unplanned nap, my body boneless and my mind quiet for the first time in weeks, the kind of peace that only came from forgetting the world in Rachel’s arms.
Not in the poetic way people said it, like it was a revelation or a reinvention. I woke up in Paris because I opened my eyes and there were unfamiliar walls, unfamiliar light, unfamiliar quiet—and Rachel.
We couldn’t have been asleep long. The morning hadn’t even fully arrived yet, the light still thin and pale, like it hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be. She was curled into me, breathing slow, her hair a soft, damp mess across the pillow like she’d fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered to move.
I didn’t move. I just lay there, letting the reality of her settle into my bones, letting myself believe this wasn’t something I’d imagined during the flight or the train. She was warm and real and here, and for the first time in weeks, my mind felt quiet.
This—this small, borrowed morning with her—was what I’d been missing all along.
Not just the calls. Not just the texts. Beingherewithher. The way her face softened in sleep. The way her hand twitched slightly when I shifted, like her body had memorized mine even if she was learning to live without me.
She stirred a few minutes later, blinking up at me with a confused, sleepy smile.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re still here.”
“I was hoping that wasn’t a morning hallucination,” I replied.
She laughed softly and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like she was doing mental math. “We’re late.”
“Define late.”
She sat up abruptly. “No. Like actually late. I have a meeting at the Daily in forty minutes and—” She checked her phone and groaned. “Thirty-three minutes.”
I shifted against the headboard. “Okay, I’m moving.”
She paused mid-scramble and looked at me. “You don’t have to go… you can stay here and?—”
“I want to go,” I said. “I want to see it. Your life. Your work. Everything—” I paused. “Unless I’d be in the way.”
She hesitated. Not about me — about the question.
“Take my boyfriend to work day?” she said lightly.
I latched onto one word. “You can take me anywhere you want, especially if you call me your boyfriend.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “The work isn’t always pretty. It’s messy, chaotic, and I don’t always know where I’m going until I get there. So—you may not have fun.”
There it was. The real question, hiding inside the logistics.
I studied her for a beat — hair wild, eyes still soft with sleep, already pulling herself into ten directions at once.
“I don’t need fun,” I said quietly. “And you don’t have to entertain me. I want to see you. However that looks.”
