Page 52 of Until We Meet Again

"I'm hoping it'll help. Maybe not when the heat first hits, but it should soothe you once you settle."

I carefully lower her into the bathtub, and her eyes meet mine with a grateful smile. I've never done anything like this for a woman before, which might make me sound like an asshole, but this is all new to me.

But I need to remember that we are casually dating—that's exactly what I called it when we started this—and yet here I am, feeling things I haven't felt before and doing things I never imagined I would.

"Thank you, Zane."

It's just a bath. There's no need to overthink it. It's the bare minimum of what I should be doing.

"When you're ready to get out, I'll get you some coffee and bring you some clothes you can change into."

"God, you're cute."Her hand softly caresses my face, and a rush of emotions floods over me. It's as if a dormant part of my soul has been awakened, triggering feelings I never knew were possible. I feel my heart racing, pounding against my chest.Instinctively, I take a step back, my trembling hand finding solace in running through my tousled hair, and I feel vulnerable for reasons I don't fully understand.

"I just want to make sure you're okay," I say before I leave her alone and return to the bedroom to change the sheets.

I release a breath as soon as I step back into my room, one I've been holding since my brain started to question what the fuck I was doing and why. But I push it away because I have to. I can get close to her without falling for her. I just need to be cautious and, most importantly, quit letting my cock determine any other feelings I may or may not have for her.

Chapter 23

Tessa

Lies! All lies!

I've read romance books, dark romance, and my fair share of smut, and none of them, not one of them, ever prepared me for the burning pain that made me feel like my vagina was being ripped in fucking half.

I wanted it, and I'm glad it happened, but all these women in books who are over it with one little thrust have just given me a false sense of security, and I wasn't ready for the reality of it.

Physically in pain, mentally on cloud nine.

When Zane was inside me, it felt like he was made out of blades, buthiminsidemesatiated every craving I’d ever had as he filled me, kissed me, and claimed me.

Then he took care of me, tending to my every need and leaving me unprepared for the feelings it triggered within.

The steam starts to clear from the impressively large bathroom while the water from the tub drains away. As I step out, I feel the warmth of the water still lingering on my skin.

I wrap myself in the towel that Zane set out for me and walk on my tiptoes toward the wall-to-wall mirror. I stand there, drying myself off, staring at my reflection.Do I look as different as I feel?With a smile and a slight shake of my head, I turn away and pick up the clothes that he left on the counter, slipping into the T-shirt and sweatpants. His scent, mixed with the freshness of clean clothes, envelopes me like a warm hug. Once I return to the bedroom, I can't help but smile when I see him lying in bed, wearing only his underwear and holding his phone.

"Looking for your next virgin?" He bursts out laughing and places his phone on the nightstand.

"Absolutely fucking not." He gently presses his lips against my forehead as I curl up beside him. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good, really good." Our hands are entwined, and his affection fills an empty space I had no idea existed or even wanted.

"I made you coffee." He points to the mug on the nightstand, and wisps of steam rise from the top of it.

"Thank you."

"So, while I waited, I was wondering where you were with Gatsby."

"I'm ready to start chapter seven."

Before releasing my hand, he gently presses his lips against the back of my knuckles, then reaches into the drawer beside his bed.

"Get comfortable, sweetheart," he says with a smile that makes the butterflies in my stomach impossible to ignore.

I inch closer to him to see what he's doing and watch him pull out the book. He searches through the pages, looking for the right chapter, before carefully turning me around and positioning my head so it rests on his lap. As he begins to read, I stare up at the ceiling, mesmerized by the soothing sound of his slight Southern accent.

"It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away," he reads.

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