Page 82 of Go Back to December

A frown tugs at his brow. “You’re not changing?”

“I’d prefer to restrain the prisoner first.”

He rolls his eyes, but the air feels thick when I strap the boots to the cone.

“Last time. You must be ecstatic.”

He huffs an affirmative as his long lashes droop.

I scurry into his bathroom to change, absconding with the T-shirt like some teenage shoplifter fleeing the mall, a six-pack of stud earrings stuffed down her bra. The shirt’s expensive plush cotton is so soft, angels must have made it, and the scent makes my heart beat like three hundred and eighty-two galloping horses.

When I open the door, Baz’s eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm. He gives no acknowledgment as I lift the sheets to crawl beneath them, and flick the switch that douses the lamp.

In the darkness, I’m hyperaware of his breath and his heat and the cool, inviting scent of soap and evergreens and Baz. My body itches to toss and turn, but if he’s asleep, I can’t risk waking him. Because I’d beg him to finish what he started in the pool hall tonight, and that would be a mistake.

I sink back onto the soft pillows and the sumptuous mattress, and find a position so comfortable, my worries about what will happen tomorrow can’t keep me from tumbling into a heavy sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

In the morning, the first thing I see when I blink away sleep is Baz’s bicolored gaze.

Despite the vast expanse of his bed, I have rolled myself to the edge of my pillow and my body curls toward him. His sculpted shoulder is inches from my head.

I have to move; my limbs twitch with a sudden spike of adrenaline.

But I’m stuck in his stare. It’s a rare sight to witness Baz’s face so calm, devoid of any temper or strain.

He shifts. So slowly, I don’t notice the long finger extended toward my face until it grazes my cheek. A beam of golden light falls on his upturned hand, illuminating an amber eyelash. He lifts it to his mouth and blows.

“You didn’t offer me my wish,” I protest softly.

“I’m selfish like that.”

“At least tell me what you wished for.”

Carefully, he tucks a stray curl behind my ear. His hand is gone before I can lean in, trap it.

Beg it to stay.

“I wished you wouldn’t kill me for doing that.”

“Why waste a perfectly good wish on that gamble?”

“It was worth it.” His voice is hoarse.

Mine is equally rough when I ask, “What else do you want?”

As soon as they’re out, I want to reel them back in. The thoughts that became words that Baz will most certainly turn into action.

He slides a glance at the orthopedic boots shackling his legs, then directs his heated gaze back to me. But I’m not ready to free him yet.

While I’m thirsty for so much more than that look, and these fleeting caresses, I need to know that the feelings we’re both bobbing and weaving around are real.

The energy pounding beneath my skin focuses into the smallest of movements. With one finger, I skim his face, searching for wishes, admitting to myself that waking up with him in his big bed is one of mine.

When I brush the scar on his chin, his breath catches.

“Melody.”