Page 94 of Nash
"I almost broke you," I say into his neck.
"Almost." His voice is raw. Wrecked. "Almost is as close as you get."
"Challenge accepted."
His chest shakes with a quiet laugh, and his arms tighten around me.
We lie there. His cock slips out of me and I press against his side, my head on his chest, his arms around me. His hands rest on my back. Neither of us moves.
"I also want to do it at Vesper."
"We can talk about Vesper."
"I want a formal tour. I want you to walk me through every room and give me the full orientation. I want to see where the Sergeant-at-Arms goes when he puts on his Vesper hat."
"I don't have a Vesper hat."
"You should get one. A very serious black hat. With a buckle."
"Ruby."
"Fine. No hat. But I want the tour."
"You'll get the tour."
I trace the tattoo on his chest, following the lines with my finger, the ink dark against his skin. His hand rests on my lower back, warm, steady, his thumb tracing lazy patterns.
"Nash."
"Yeah."
"Whatever you need to tell me about my dad." I keep my eyes on the tattoo. Keep my voice steady. "I've been putting pieces together. The way he reacted to Naya's name at the cookout. The way you watched him that day. How you looked last night when you came home."
His hand stills on my back.
"I'm not asking you to tell me right now. You said when you're ready, and I meant it when I said I'd be here." I look up at him. "But I want you to know that I see the shape of it. Whatever he did, whatever he's connected to, I'm not going to break."
"I know you won't."
"Good. Because I'm a lot of things, Nash, but fragile isn't one of them." I press my lips to his chest. "When you're ready. Together."
He pulls me tighter against him. His lips press against the top of my head.
We lie there. The morning light shifts across the ceiling. My body is still humming, warm, loose. His heart beats steady under my ear.
The knock comes at eleven-fifteen.
Two knocks. Then a pause. Then one more. Not the signal Nash taught me. Not East's pattern. Or Kyle's.
Nash is off the bed before the third knock fades, his body shifting from the man holding me to the Sergeant-at-Arms in less than a second. He pulls on his jeans and grabs his shirt off the floor.
"Stay here," he says.
"Nash—"
"Stay here."
I grab his T-shirt I was wearing before and pull it on. I hear Nash cross the living room, then hear the pause at the door where he checks the camera feed on his phone.
