Page 38 of For Her Own Good

“I’m not drunk. That’s not why I’m here. It’s not liquid courage. I know how I feel.”

She’s angry now, so mad she might stomp a foot. While I might deserve her heel coming down on my toes, the grinding of bone against hardwood, perhaps the snap of one of those devilishly small bones you can’t really do much for, it would likely also ping that delighted part of my brain that likes to see her let go of how she thinks she ought to act and give in to her feelings, her impulses, reckless as they may be.

“Be that as it may, I would never forgive myself if you woke up in the morning and felt like you’d done something you’d regret. So, for my sake, please. We can’t do this right now.”

Her face has gotten that dusky coral color that passes for blush on her olive-toned skin and instead of about to cry, she looks like she might physically assault me. Wouldn’t blame her for that a bit. Her eyes flash dangerously and fury twists her sweet features.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Either one.”

And just as fast, she looks as though she might cry again, and it breaks my heart. It would be so simple to take her in my arms, kiss her hard, explore her flesh with my hands, carry her to bed and have my way with her there. Simple, but not easy, and I can’t do it, no matter how much I’d like to.

Hands on her hips now, she cocks her head. “Are you going to send me home?”

Och, am I? I hate the idea of her being alone in a car or on public transit having had something to drink. It’d make her a target, and I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her.

“No. But you’re going to bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

That scowl is masterful. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not. It’s my choice.”

“And what if I say I’ll sleep on the floor if you sleep on the couch?”

Her arms are crossed, stubborn as can be, and it makes me feel as though my cerebrospinal fluid is sloshing about in my skull. What an infuriating woman. I’d like to threaten to pick her up and deposit her in said bed, but if I do that…if I do that, then all my protests are for naught because there is no way I’d be able to stop at tossing her on the bed. I’d surely follow.

“Fine. We’ll both sleep in the bed. Now, march.”

There’s a glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she turns to flounce toward the bedroom, but she’ll learn I’m as clever as she is. Well, probably not, but in this one instance I can outwit her.

I pull back the covers and point to the expanse of sheet.

“In you get.”

There’s a smile on her face as she hops up, tucks her feet under the blankets and lies down, head on the pillow and arms by her sides. It kills me to cover her up, pull the linens up to her chin and tuck them under the mattress. I’ve often wished I could keep Starla with me, look after her, put her to bed when she’s tired, make sure she eats when she’s hungry and drinks water before she gets thirsty, give her constant reminders of how loved she is. Having her here, the opportunity to do just that within my grasp and refusing it all, is fucking with my head.

Saint Lowry. Fuck me.

* * *

Starla

It’s six in the morning, and the late-winter sun is trying its best to force its way through Lowry’s curtains. I know this because I am in Lowry’s bed. So is he. But not holding me in his arms, not even with his head on a pillow beside mine. Oh, no.

I can still hear the deep, even breath of sleep coming from the foot of the bed where he is sleeping crosswise. I cannot believe he is for real doing this. That he honest-to-god slept like that. All night. When he first lay down, I made to join him and he made one of those distinctly Scottish noises. I don’t know how they do that, make a single sound that contains so much meaning. This had a distinctly warning note.

And then he’d said it: “Star. Don’t.”

I should have been insulted. I should have gotten up, called a car, and left. I should have told him to make up his goddamn mind, to either be with me or not, but this was bullshit. To want me here, to want me to be well and safe andin his goddamn bedbut not have anything beyond a polite concern for me. It doesn’t make any sense.

But… While I had felt chastised and frustrated, I’d also felt a twinge of arousal.Star. Don’t.His tone had contained all the best things about being scolded. Restrained power, confidence. Brevity because he believed I would obey. The way he said my name… Could be making this up because I want it so badly, but it sounded almost as though he wanted me but was holding himself back, a verbal bite of his fist. Giving himself a warning as much as he was warning me.

I’d had half a mind to get myself off imagining what might have followed if this were my perfect life instead of the one I’m actually living. I’m not a brat, though. Never have been, beyond a little sass. No, I desperately want to please, be a good girl, and I don’t think that masturbating in his bed with him right there would qualify, especially since he hadn’t even been willing to grant me the intimacy of sleeping side by side. After some pouting, I’d fallen asleep because apparently I was exhausted and the comfort of his bed overtook me. So now I’m frustrated in more ways than one.

I should get up and go home, start my day. Read over some more of those reports my advisors have compiled about the state of Patrick Enterprises and what different scenarios would look like. Not what I want to do, but apparently very little of my life is about what I want. Which seems wrong somehow. I can buy any goddamn thing I want in triplicate, but the things I want most desperately, I can’t buy.

There’s movement from the end of the bed, and I hold my breath. Lowry slips off the mattress, and even in the gloom of the early morning I can see that at some point last night he took his shirt off so he’s only in cotton pajama pants. Doctor Lowry Campbell, shirtless, is a sight to behold.

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