Page 59 of Arrogant Puck

“Why not?”

I gesture toward the couch, toward him sitting here in the dark at whatever ungodly hour this is. “Why are you awake? I can’t live here if you can’t even sleep because I’m here.”

“Would you rather I be asleep right now?”

The question stops me cold. I pause, not sure how to answer that.

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re drunk,” he says quietly.

“What?” The word comes out as barely a breath. “Why not? I’m passed out.”

He doesn’t respond, just looks at me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much.

“Nothing bad’s going to happen,” I insist.

“You don’t know that.”

“Slater, I can take care of myself.”

“I thought so too and then you came along.”

I don’t even know what to say or think. “What’s happening right now?”

“It’s almost 2 AM.”

Jesus. I thought it said midnight. I must have imagined a number one before the two. No wonder I feel like death. “Let’s go back to sleep. I can take the couch this time.” I walk over and plop down on the leather, which is surprisingly comfortable.

But then he’s hovering above me, this massive presence that makes the spacious living room feel intimate.

“What?” I ask, confused and still trying to get comfortable.

“Can I pick you up?” he mutters.

“Why?”

Instead of answering, he tests me by sliding his arms around my neck and under my knees, positioning himself to lift me but waiting for permission. “Can I?”

Something about the way he asks, like my consent actually matters to him, makes my chest tight. “Sure.”

He lifts me effortlessly, and I’m struck by how gentle he is despite his size. His steps are measured as he carries me down the hall, and I feel like I’m floating.

“You’re sleeping in silk,” he says, his voice low and certain. “Tonight, and every night.”

I stare into his eyes as he carries me, wondering why this feels so intimate. It’s beyond any physical attraction, beyond the undeniable chemistry between us. Something deeper is happening here, something that makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with trust.

Why is my heart palpitating like this? Why does being carried to his bed feel more intimate than anything that could happen once we get there?

He places me on the bed with the same careful gentleness, pulling the silk sheets up to my chin and tucking them around me like I’m something precious. When he turns to walk away, panic flutters in my chest.

“Where are you going?”

“The couch,” he says simply.

I shake my head before I can stop myself. “Will you stay with me?”

His expression hardens, like he’s bracing himself for rejection. “Is that what you want?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

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