Page 82 of Ruthless Sin

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Then he nods. Just once. Barely.

He doesn’t say come here or sleep or my name.

I cross to the bed.

The far side. The side I lay down on the night I crossed.

I don’t lie on top of the covers this time.

I get under them.

I pull back the sheet. The blanket. I slide in.

Under the sheet. Under the blanket. In the bed with him.

The fabric is cool against my legs. My nightgown rides up to mid-thigh when I settle. I don’t pull it down.

I lie on my side.

I face him.

Not the wall.

Not his back.

Him.

My cheek is on his pillow. The pillow is still warm from where his head was before he sat up. The pillow smells like him. Soap and skin and warmth.

He’s already on his side facing me.

No shirt. The sheet is at his waist. Low on his waist. Lower than it needs to be. The line where the sheet meets his skin. The muscle at his hip. The place where his ribs meet his stomach.

His chest rises and falls when he breathes.

His right hand is on the sheet between us. Palm down. Fingers loose. Close enough that if either of us shifted, we would touch.

His hand stays. He doesn’t move at all.

His face is close to mine in the dark.

No man this close. Not safely.

His eyes are dark, almost black in this light, and he doesn’t look away and neither do I. We don’t touch or speak. The heat of his body reaches me through the space between us, his warmth and the size of him and the smell of his skin, and my nipples are hard against the cotton of my nightgown.

His every breath reaches me. Chest rising. Falling. Steady. Not like mine.

The room smells like soap and clean sheets and jasmine through the open window.

The cicadas have gone quiet.

The line of his jaw, the place where his throat meets his chest. His hair falls across his forehead. His mouth is soft at the edges, real.

The mouth that was on mine in the library. That kissed me slow and deep and gave me everything without taking anything back.

My eyes go to his.

He’s looking at me. His eyes move across my face.

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