Page 42 of The Sharpest Edges

“Only been with two women and I’ve only ever had sex drunk,” Dean says quietly. “Had to, or I’d get in my head about it. They weren’t drunk, but I needed something, so I get it. I do. Don’t want it to be like that with you, though. Need to know there ain’t wine telling you to do this, need to know you’re really with me, and if that means we wait, then we wait. Don’t matter how long.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice trembles. “I don’t wanna lose you because I’m—”

“You ain’t losing me.” He gives her a lazy smile. “Stuck with me now.”

“I don’t feel stuck.”

There is an odd sense of relief that flows through her unbidden. A moment ago she was ready to accept whatever he wanted and now the fact that they aren’t doing anything else tonight has her exhaling heavily, her limbs tingling with adrenaline and a sudden exhaustion overtaking her. Maybe she wasn’t as ready as she thought she was.

“Been a long day,” he says softly, “Lemme get you in bed.”

He scoops her up off the floor and she curls into his chest while he carries her to the bedroom. He deposits her on themattress, pulls the covers up to her shoulders, and drops a kiss on her temple as she begins to drift.

“Dream of aliens in the broom closet,” he whispers.

“Stay with me? Just to sleep.”

“Alright.”

He slips into bed with her, over the top of the blankets. It takes them a moment to get comfortable. This is new and even with the buzz in her brain, she isn’t sure how to nestle with anyone. How to be held. Eventually, he wraps around her from behind, letting her hug his forearm to her chest, his body warm at her back.

17

Chapter 17

Dean’s not used to sleeping in a bed with another person.

Put aside the fact that he’s never had sex in an actual bed with anyone. That’s beside the point because he and Ava are not doing anything that resembles sex right now.

He’s on his back in her soft bed, staring at the ceiling while worrying his lip between his teeth. She’s passed out next to him, curled up as close as she can get without pressing herself along his body. Maybe wary of sending him running out of the room in a panic if she touches him too much or gets too close.

One of her hands curls around his forearm though, light and consistent.

She tossed and turned at first and for a moment he thought the two of them would share this weird problem, but then she settled, arcing her body in his direction and letting out a heavy sigh. Meanwhile, he’s still wide awake, unwilling to move or make a sound. He remembers seeing a picture on the internet of a skeleton with a cat on its lap, the caption saying something about how a person can’t move until the cat leavesand he sort of feels like that skeleton. Frozen and worried he’ll wake up the precious thing that’s chosen to sleep so closely.

The previous night replays on a loop in his mind. It’s not the best plan considering he can’t do anything else about it now, but he’s gotten better at mentally smothering his hard-on every time the movie reel gets to the best parts. When she’s straddling his lap, pushing down on his cock and chasing his lips. And then he remembers how devastated she looked when they stopped, how tears streaked her cheeks as she told him why she had to do it drunk, and suddenly nothing is arousing anymore.

He can wait. She’s worth it even if she seems to doubt that fact much as he doubts it about himself, but if she needs him to be patient, then he’s all aboard the patience train.

Ticket for one: Dean Dawson.

He hadn’t expected the slight panic that overcame her, or how her hands shook as she went for his belt. He knows her marriage wasn’t an easy one, picked up on that along the way but hadn’t connected the dots on just how difficult it was until tonight. Does she hide the same scars on her body that he does? He hopes not. It’s part of the reason he’d been relieved to stop. Even if he had a raging boner and was downright suffering, going further meant letting her see him. Exposing himself in all the ways he’s most terrified of and expecting her not to turn away in disgust or pity at the lashes that crisscross his skin. She has seen a few of them before in prison, but it’s different now and he may not be ready, which sadly worked out, because she isn’t ready either.

Ava makes a pitiful little wail in the back of her throat and he frowns, watching her brow crease and feeling her fingers curl tighter around his arm.

She is struggling with monsters and he’s unsure of how to help, or if he even should. When he has nightmares, waking up in the darkness of his room panting and clutching his chest like he might have a damn heart attack at any moment, all he wants is to know he’s not alone. It’s a comfort he’s gotten used to never receiving, but he is with her now, able to offer something he’s wished for himself.

The next time she lets out that soft, guttural noise, he reaches over and traces the frame of her face. He pushes her hair off her forehead and runs a light hand down her cheek. “Shhh, just a dream. I’m here.”

He keeps his voice quiet, but she gravitates toward it anyway, resting her forehead against his bicep before she settles again. Someday he’ll be brave enough to throw caution to the wind and wrap her up in his arms, hold her close, and stroke her back while he whispers reassuring words in her ear, but for now, all he can do is let his hand cover hers.

He lays awake for another hour before exhaustion finally takes over.

* * *

Dean wakes early but Ava is still passed out cold, so he makes coffee for them both and sets hers on the bedside table while he looks out the bedroom window. People are gardening and walking their dogs, and he glares at a man getting ready to run his lawnmower at eight am on a Saturday. That should be illegal.

The bed creaks behind him and Ava wakes with a stretch, taking a sip of her coffee before making her way over to wrapher arms around him from behind.

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