Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
My throat tightens.
“Tonight….” He swallows, and his voice dips with vulnerability. “I just want to sleep beside you if you’ll allow that.”
How could I ever refuse him? I nod rapidly, rushing forward until my feet land between his. “Can I hug you?”
For a second, he regards me, a twitch feathering at the corner of his eye. Then he rises from the bed, the movement forcing me to shuffle back. He opens his arms. Not wide or theatrical. Just enough. Just for me.
I go to him, falling into him, my cheek smashing against his chest, and my arms forming a vise around his broad frame. The scents of soap, rain, and his signature, feral notes of the wild flood me with relief.
The physical contact does swirly, glowy things to my heart. He’s solid. So damn strong and solid. Heat radiates through the thin layers of fabric between us, and I want to sink into it, lose myself there.
His arms cinch around me, rock-hard but trembling, like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.
We both need this. Affection, anchoring, and proof of life.
But there’s something else. Something hard and urgent, jabbing between us.
I flinch, not away, but in shock. The timing isn’t great after his catatonic breakdown on the shower floor. I didn’t expect him to be thinking about sex. But if he wants to take me right here, right now, I’ll give myself to him without hesitation. Happily. Willingly. Desperately.
I move my hand lower, tracing the rigid shape of him.
“Dove.” He groans darkly and seizes my wrist, shaking his head. “No.”
“I’m so sorry.” I jerk my hand away.
“Trust me. I’m the one who’s sorry. My head’s in a fucked-up place.” He rests his forehead against mine and recaptures my wrist. “My body doesn’t care. It’ll always react when you touch me. But tonight…” His grip softens, thumb brushing my skin. “I can’t. Not until we talk, okay? Tonight, I just want to be near you. With you. Just us in the present moment.”
What he wants, it’s more intimate than anything physical he could’ve asked of me. It’s… Gentle. Strange, but gentle. No weight of expectation pressing down. No hands reaching for more. Just him, here, choosing me without an angle.
He came to my room to be with me, not to take from me. That’s new. That’s different. With men, I’ve never had this.
So I nod, letting my shoulders relax, and wait for his lead.
He slides back onto the bed, watching me intensely as he lowers himself onto his side. I follow, curling onto mine, facing him.
Our hands find each other in the middle, fingers tangling, palms hot with shared pulse.
We don’t speak. His eyes stay on me, hooded but soft, carrying too many memories, too much pain. I hold his gaze, searching the flickers there, mesmerized by how exhaustion stripped away the years, exposing so much of his innocence.
The silence grows heavy, but not oppressive. It’s comfortable, despite all the things neither of us can say.
Are you okay? He’s not okay.
Do you want to talk? He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Did you have sex with Jag? I don’t want to think about it.
I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.
This intimacy… I’ve never experienced anything like it with anyone else. Intimacy without sex. Without chatter. Just a deep, cozy closeness between two people content to watch each other, breath syncing in the quiet.
His eyes drift over my face, mine over his, both of us caught in some wordless spell. The world falls away, leaving only the rhythm of our lungs, the warmth of our hands, and the quiet hum of noisy thoughts.
Then, after a long beat, his mouth bounces at the corner. “Have you heard the fairy tale about the drag queen, the heart doctor, and the princess bride?”
“No, but I’d love to hear it.”
“It’s dark.”
“Have you met me?”
“Fair enough. I’ll skip the buildup and start at the good part.” He stretches out his legs, linking them around mine. “The drag queen jumps. Right off the cliff. Sequins, eyeliner, fuck-me boots, the whole shebang. Splat. Right into the icy river, she goes. Drowns, dies, done. Curtain closed.”
“But she didn’t die.”
“Lord knows she almost met him.” He hauls in a long, shaky breath. “But as usual, the Mighty God is a no-show. Instead, she meets the doctor. The white-coat kind that hands out medicine and miracles. He drags the queen out of the water, sews her back together, and saves her life. Sounds like a stand-up guy, right?”
“I feel a twist coming.”
“All the best fairy tales have one. But this one comes with trigger warnings. Can you handle that?”
“I don’t have triggers.”
“We’ll see. As it turns out, the fancy little heart doctor has a few screws loose. But screwdrivers aren’t his specialty. Scalpels are. He loves the way they shine under the fluorescent lights, and for the next ten months, he demonstrates his mad skills. Slice, hack, cut, stab. Anatomy turned into art.”