Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He guides my hand under the cold tap with his other hand, turning the faucet on in one smooth motion. Cool water rushes over the burn, soothing the sting immediately, the contrast between the hot scald and the icy stream sharp enough to make me shiver.
I stand there, chest still heaving, trying to catch my breath. He’s so close behind me. Shirtless. The heat of his bare skin presses against my back through the thin fabric of my t-shirt, solid and warm, the hard line of his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. I can feel every inch of him, and the faint scrape of stubble when his jaw brushes my temple. I can smell the clean, sleepy scent of him wrapping around me like cedar and warm skin and something that’s just Ricci. My pulse stutters for an entirely different reason now, and the burn on my hand suddenly becomes the least important thing in the room.
It takes a little while for my breathing to settle. His fingers stay wrapped around my wrist, gentle but firm, holding me under the cool stream while his thumb brushes slow, absent circles over the inside of my arm. The touch is so soft, so careful, it makes something in my chest sob with what I cannot say to him. I watch the water run over my skin, clear and cold, and try not to think about how good his touch feels. How safe. How much I want to lean back into him and let him hold me like this for the rest of the night.
“Be careful,” he says, worry thick in his voice. His breath fans across my ear. “Are you okay?”
I nod, still a little shaky, the words catching in my throat. “I’m fine.”
Without thinking, my free hand lifts, fingers brushing the small frown between his brows, smoothing it out. The moment I touch his forehead, I feel that familiar pull low in my belly. He’s so close. Shirtless, just the soft gray pajama bottoms riding low on his hips. His silky hair messy from sleep, stubble shadowing his jaw. During the day he’s always so put together: sharp suits, controlled power. But right now he looks… real. Ruggedly handsome in a way that makes my breath catch.
Before he can turn off the faucet, I pull my hand back gently. “I’m fine,” I repeat, softer this time. I try to distract myself from the heat pooling low in my stomach. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
He studies me for a second, eyes dark in the low light, then he nods slowly. “Tea? Why not?”
We move to the counter together. I pour two mugs, the steam rising warm and fragrant between us. He leans against the island, arms crossed loosely over his bare chest, watching me. I can feel his gaze like a touch.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate, stirring my tea even though there’s nothing in it to stir. I don’t want to bother him. We’ve already talked about the brunch, about the wives, about how I don’t owe anyone anything.
I look up and meet his eyes. For a moment neither of us speaks. Then, slowly, we both smile, the kind of smile that says we understand each other without needing all the words.
And for the first time tonight, my worry about my silly brunch feels a little smaller.
Chapter Fifty-One
RICCI
Ilean against the counter, mug warm between my palms, and just watch her.
The kitchen is dim, only the soft under-cabinet lights on, casting a gentle glow across her face. She’s in an oversized t-shirt, and the hem skimming the tops of her thighs makes her bare legs look impossibly silky and long in the low light. Her hair is a little messy from sleep and falling over one shoulder. I can catch the faint scent of her — warm skin, faint jasmine from her hand lotion, and something that’s just Viola.
I enjoy this.
These quiet, stolen moments in the middle of the night. Just the two of us, no outside noise, no expectations. The city that never sleeps is still humming far below us, but up here it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I wish she would allow herself to fall asleep in the same bed as me. I want to ask for it outright, but I want her to come too. I wish I could just tell her the truth that I slept better that first night in her bed than I have in years. No nightmares. No lying awake running through every possible threat. Just her warmth against me, her breathing steady, and the kind of deep, dreamless rest I didn’t know I was missing.
I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before. Not for sleep. I never wondered what it would feel like. The vulnerability or the closeness. Now I know. And I want it again. Badly.