Page 102 of Lessons in Heartbreak

Sleeping next to him was like having a giant purring cat as my own personal pillow. He snored lightly, and I lay there in the weak predawn light, studying the line of his profile as my rib cage squeezed uncomfortably.

He smelled so good. Was so warm and solid. My hand was still settled on his stomach, where it rose and fell with his steady breaths. Itsaid a lot, really, that my first thoughts after waking weren’t about the sex itself, though that nipped straight on the heels of my more innocent musings.

Because the sex ... oh, the sex.

World-scrambling, off-the-charts, I-might-never-walk-normal-again sex.

That was the real reason I was lying there, staring all moon-eyed at the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips and the stubble on his chin, and wondering beyond those physical features, why he was alone after all these years.

It didn’t make sense, knowing the kind of man he was and how thoroughly he’d taken care of me. Taken care of me in ways that I hadn’t even been able to articulate.

Careful not to wake him, I raised my hand and skimmed it lightly over the line of his bottom lip. My eyes burned with a sudden press of unshed tears because of how badly I wanted to kiss him again.

It was the oxytocin, I told myself. That powerful little chemical released in a sharp spike during orgasm, but more importantly, released during moments of affection. Even small ones like this. One of the things I’d found when I researched sex was how often people confused the flood of oxytocin with real, deep feelings about the person who’d unleashed it.

There was a natural order to that—viewing Griffin as a symbol of these new things I’d never felt before. Even if it seemed impossible now, I might have felt this with anyone.

Liar.

Filthy little liar who lies to herself.

The voice ripped through my head before I could stop it, and I slammed my eyes shut. In the wake of that whispered warning, I had a vicious memory of my parents sitting by my hospital bed with pinched faces, the perpetual exhaustion stamped on their features after years of worrying about me.

It didn’t take much, with powerful chemicals seeping through all the cracks and crevices of my brain, to slide Griffin into that memory and feel the clench of my chest in return. To imagine him worrying and tired and parked in a hospital chair while I struggled to breathe easily or fought some simple infection that shouldn’t sideline a woman of my age.

A tear slid down the side of my nose before I could stop it, and I wiped it away before it dropped to his chest.

I wouldn’t feel this with anyone. But neither would I sentence him to living out a bleak future with a murky end date. Loss came in dozens of ways when you experienced what I had. Loss of a future. Loss of possibilities. Loss of physical strength and emotional bandwidth. Maybe I hadn’t handled all those different kinds of loss perfectly, but neither would I allow selfishness to color my decision-making.

It was the cold truth of logic, something I could easily apply to this situation with the sleeping man at my side. I refused to see him be hurt. To see him sad. Letting him walk away without knowing how easily I’d fallen for him was the best gift I could give.

He slept on while I eased out of his embrace, and I breathed out slowly as I sat on the edge of the bed and speared my hands into my hair. My legs were bare, and I grimaced when I realized that I wasn’t entirely sure where my underwear was.

I froze.

“Fucking oxytocin,” I hissed quietly. I hadn’t worn underwear. Lauren, in her infinite wisdom, had told me to show up with as few barriers as possible. Sure enough, we didn’t have many. Not even a houseful of people, as it turns out. My face was hot as I remembered how his hands had played with the hem of my dress on the dance floor.

Past Me—driven by that very powerful, almost magical chemical force—had made some really questionable decisions.

Not that I was shaming myself for wanting sex with him. That would’ve been stupid and steeped in rampant misogyny, but it was more about doing things that weren’t like me.

They were like me, though. It was me who had shown up at his party. Me who’d let him kiss me at the table, in plain view of everyone there. Me who’d slipped easily into his arms.

It was me ... with Griffin. A side of myself I’d never known before, and damn it, I liked that version of Ruby Tate.

With a sigh, I tiptoed across the room and picked through the pile of clothes nearest the foot of the bed, exhaling in relief when I found my dress. Before I slipped his shirt off, I brought the neck up to my nose and inhaled deeply, my eyes rolling shut.

God, it wasn’t fair.

When it was lying in a pile on the floor and I’d tugged my dress into place, I eyed that shirt briefly, wondering if I could steal it without him noticing. Just, you know, sleep in it every night until the scent disappeared.

I’d almost reached down to grab it when he shifted on the bed, emitting a low groan that had my thighs pressing together.

“No,” he moaned in a raspy voice. “Why are you getting dressed? Come back into bed, birdy.”

Pasting a small smile on my face, I turned. “I have to work today.”

Griffin stretched his arms over his head, and my mouth watered at the way the sheets pooled around his waist. There was a distinct bulge underneath the sheet, and I tore my eyes away, blowing out a short, forceful puff of air.

---