Page 46 of The Back Forty
When he finishes the top row of my teeth, he presses a paper cup to my cheek. “Turn and spit now, honey.”
I obey completely dazed by everything that’s happening. He’s so gentle it guts me.
“When Beckham was five, he broke his arm playing football. Refused to use the other one for anything. I brushed his teeth every night,” he offers like that explains why he’s doing this for me now. He brushes the bottom row next, taking his time while his opposite hand lingers on my throat.
The cup touches my cheek again and I turn my head and spit without being asked. This time he looks down at me for a beat too long before he whispers,“Good girl,” and then adjusts me back under the covers and tucks me in like he didn't just wreck me with his hands and words. “You alright now for bed?”
“Yeah,” I respond softly.
But I’m not. I’m anything butalright because this whole night has been a lot on me physically, mentally and emotionally and though I know this is just who he is, a dad at his core who takes care of the people around him, it somehow feels way more intimate in my fucked up head.
“I can take the couch if that makes you more comfortable,” he offers.
I shake my head. “Next to me in the bed is fine.”
He nods, then lies on top of the covers, leaving too much space between us. We watch TV like that, quiet and still. And even though I’m exhausted, completely wrung out from panic, fromthe fear of feeling like I almost just died, I don’t want to fall asleep.
Because if I do, this might end.
But my body has other plans. And as I drift off, the last thing I feel is the steady rise and fall of Lawson’s body beside me and the terrifying, impossible ache in mine.
Chapter 18 – Lawson
Dammit, what is that noise?
Ah, my alarm.
I crack one eye open and let out a soft groan. The hotel room is dim, tinged in early gray light, and for a second, I can’t figure out where the noise is at in relation to my body. I shift my arm slightly and then freeze when I realize what my fingers are touching.
Sometime in the middle of the night, while I was dead to the world and worn out from Dani’s panic attack, my body went and broke every rule I’ve built. Now my left arm is wrapped around her in this awkward, accidental spoon—half under the covers, half over—like my subconscious decided we were something more than coworkers and friends. Like my instincts knew what my brain keeps insisting I shouldn’t want.
And my palm? Yeah, it’s cupped around her very bare, very smooth pussy.
My fingers are curled possessively over the swell of it, pinning her against my chest in a protective hold. All that separates us is the blanket she’s cocooned in and a thin layer of my sanity. I can feel the warmth of her breath and if I moved my fingers just the tiniest bit, I could easily slip them inside her pussy because she's wearing nothing under this T-shirt. Her underwear is still discarded somewhere in the hotel bathroom due to me being too terrified to put it back on and cross a line.
Yet here I am. Crossing a fucking line with my hands.
Shit.
I yank my arm back like she’s made of fire. And maybe she is, because even though the contact is broken, I can still feel the ghost of her heat on my skin. I can still feel how right it felt to hold her while we slept, even if I was completely unconscious and had no idea I was doing it.
I sit up too fast, dragging in a breath, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason. My phone alarm is still going off, muffled somewhere beneath a pillow while Dani continues to snore peacefully. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and scrub a hand down my face before finally digging it out and silencing it.
“Time to get moving,” I say, voice rough. I clear my throat, louder this time since she’s still snoring. “Hey Dani, we gotta make our flight home now.”
Behind me, I hear the rustle of sheets. She rolls over slowly, bleary-eyed and soft, blinking at me like she’s still trying to remember where she is. Her dark brown hair’s a mess; a few strands are stuck to her cheek as she rubs her eyes lazily. She’s wearing that same oversized band tee she slept in last night, collar slipping off one shoulder now. And even after the panicattack, even in this disoriented, morning-after haze, she still looks like the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
It guts me how much I want to crawl back into bed, wrap her up in my arms again, breathe in that clean, soapy scent of hers, and sleep for another few hours with her pressed against me. Maybe this time she’d curl into my chest, brush her fingers against my beard, kiss my lips and whisper that she wants more.
And maybe we could do all that. No one’s banging on the door. No one’s clocking our every move when we're on the road. But we’ve got a flight to catch. People are counting on us to get back to North Carolina in time to help with the Marshall booths at the state fair. And more than that, I know that I can’t let myself cross that line with her because I’ll never be able to go back.
I’m already toeing it far too often. How we went thirteen months working together to this heated tension, I can't wrap my mind around.
“I’m gonna head back to my room to pack,” I tell her. I grab my phone and wallet off the nightstand. “Meet you in the lobby in thirty?”
She nods, her voice still thick with sleep. “Okay.”
I force myself to look away, to keep my gaze on the door and not the way that the sheets have slipped lower or how sweet and sleepy her expression is when she first wakes. Because if I let myself look at her too long, I’m not going to leave.
