Page 78 of Objection Overruled
“I was vulnerably horizontal. There’s a difference.”
“You drooled on me.”
I gasp. “I did not.”
“You did,” he says flatly. “And you still talk in your sleep.”
Mortified, I stare at him. “What did I say?”
He pauses. For just a beat too long. “Something about lemon tart.”
“That sounds on brand.”
“It does.”
I groan into a pillow while Waffles climbs up beside me and immediately steps on my face. Rowan chuckles—chuckles, the monster—and then says, “Ten minutes, Whitmore.”
I glare at his retreating back, then at Waffles.
He just yawns.
I am in hell.
But a tiny part of me?—
The part that melted into him without thinking, the part that liked waking up warm and held?—
That part?
Isn’t so sure.
And that’s the real problem.
Chapter Nineteen
Rowan
Jerking off in the shower didn’t help.
I’m still hard.
Pacing the suite hasn’t helped either. The coffee’s cold, and nothing drowns out the fact that I can still feel her against me. Tessa didn’t just move in her sleep; she reached for me, threw her leg over mine, pressed closer like she used to. For a few hours, there wasn’t any distance or damage or silence between us. There was only her.
And I let it happen.
Now, she’s in the bathroom. The water stopped ten minutes ago, but she’s still moving around. I can hear the quiet scrape of drawers and the faint click of bottles. Every sound cuts through me because I know what she looks like right now—bare, flushed, trying to pretend she doesn’t know I’m out here thinking about her.
I shouldn’t remember her this clearly, but I do. I remember the way she used to wake up, always stealing the covers and mumbling nonsense until I made her coffee. I remember how her hand always found my chest, how she’d trace the edge of the scar near my ribs without saying anything. I remember the way she used to look at me when she thought I was still asleep.
That’s what’s killing me.
Because last night felt too real. Her breath on my neck, her hand at my stomach, the small sound she made when I pulled her closer—none of it felt like a mistake. It felt like a memory I shouldn’t have been allowed to touch again.
I didn’t sleep. I just lay there with my hand on her hip, too aware of how easy it would’ve been to forget why I can’t have her. She was warm and close, and my body didn’t care that she was a problem I already solved years ago.
Now I can’t stop thinking about her. About the way she fit against me, about how fast I’d break my own rules if she asked me to.
The bathroom door opens.
