Page 45 of Hold You Close
Her arms go around my neck and I breathe in her vanilla and almond perfume. I make my way to my room, being careful not to wake her again. When I place her down, her eyes shoot open.
“What? Ian?” She scrambles quickly across the bed. Away from me.
“Relax, it’s fine. I’m going to sleep on the couch for a few hours, you stay here.”
The moonlight hits her face and I have to stop myself from rushing over to her and kissing her until neither of us can breathe.
Has she always been this beautiful?
Yes, she has. I’ve just been too angry to see it. Her hair hangs down around her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts. It would be too easy to push her down, crawl on top of her, and make her beg for me.
London represents everything I’ve ever wanted but didn’t deserve.
She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s also brilliant, funny, kind, and loving. I loved her once and let her go because she needed to fly.
Even in my selfish sex-crazed twenties, I knew that.
“No, no, this is your bed and . . .”
“Go to sleep, Lon. You should be comfortable.”
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“And so can I.”
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Stubborn. As. Fuck.
“What time is it?” she asks, looking around.
“It’s about three-thirty. Get some rest, I’ll see you in the morning.” Leaning over her, I kiss her forehead and get up.
“Have it your way.”
If I had it my way, I’d be next to her.
“This isn’t my way,” I tell her.
“Well,” she sighs as she lies back on the pillow. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
Anything for you.
I push that thought out of my head. I can’t seem to pull myself back anymore. All the feelings that were dead and gone have been resurrected. I want her. I’ve always wanted her, that was never the issue. It was that I’ve never been good enough for her. London is the sun, the stars, the light at the end of the tunnel that I’m so desperate to reach, but know I’ll never touch. I have to remember that she dislikes me for good reason. If only she didn’t look so beautiful in my bed . . .
“Goodnight.”
I look over, shake my head, and shove the thoughts from my head. “Goodnight, London.”
I hear the sheets move as she gets comfortable, and I need to get out of these fucking clothes and out of my head.
That’s the one thing about nightlife in Vegas, you reek of it. It clings to you, reminding you of the booze, smoke, desperation, and perfume you enjoyed hours ago. I used to love that smell, but now, I want it gone.
I enter my closet, so I can put the light on and get what I need to shower. A laundry basket is sitting on the floor there. What the hell? I take my shirt and pants off, toss them in there and go to grab clothes.
Okay, this is fucking weird. My very neat and organized drawer has a pair of underwear in with my shirts. My housekeeper would never do that, and I was in here before work and this was not how things were.
I look around to make sure the sex toys are still in the kick drawer and untouched. Lord only knows what kind of questions I’d be facing in the morning if it was the kids.
