Page 134 of Shattered Lives

My stroking hands.

Wetness.

Heat.

I rub my hand over my face again in frustration.

It’s a long night.

Charlie lies stock-still beside me. Her breathing is even. She wants me to believe she’s fallen asleep, but I know she’s awake. I’ve laid beside this woman for months now while she sleeps. Her face relaxes, and her spine melts into me. Unless she’s having a nightmare, she’s completely at ease.

Right now, she’s stiff as a board.

Meanwhile, I’m fighting a different type of stiffness. I’ve been pretending to read, but I’m caught in the memories replaying in my mind. The taste of her lips. My mouth on her bare skin. Her legs wrapping around my hips, drawing me closer. Her whimper and my answering groan.

The tension grows in my body, and with it, my frustration.

I’m so agitated by the time Charlie gets out of bed an hour before her alarm goes off that I tell her I’m just going to sleep. I can tell she’s not slept by the shadows beneath her eyes. She nods and tells me to sleep well, closing my door on her way out.

When I eventually sleep, I dream of her. When I wake, I’m testy, because it’s made me want what I can never have.

Charlie.

In every way.

The sexual tension between us is palpable, but neither of us acknowledges it. Not directly, at least.

Charlie’s withdrawal started as soon as I stopped her from massaging me. My rejection wounded her, and she’s pulling away. The more she withdraws, the more snappish and testy I become, and the more cranky I am, the more she retreats. It’s a vicious cycle.

God, I’ve fucked things up, and I have no idea how to fix them.

I don’t even know if we can.

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