Page 72 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
I stroke the damp hair out of her face and hold her while she trembles in my arms. I match my breathing to hers and then slow it down until her thundering heartbeat returns to a more normal speed. The shorts and top I bought for her are wet with sweat, soaking through to the skin beneath my T-shirt.
“Oh God,” she whimpers. “Oh God, no ...”
I hold her tightly and whisper that everything’s going to be okay, on repeat, until her body softens and she slips into a calmer sleep. When I’m sure she’s through the worst of it, I loosen my hold, rest the back of my head against the headboard, and close my eyes. Her chest expands and contracts lightly against mine with her gentle breaths.
I continue to stroke her hair absently, just because I want to hold onto the moment for as long as I can. As soon as she walks out of this apartment tomorrow, she’s all his.
My heart cracks a fraction, and I hold her a little tighter.
I yawn, but I don’t succumb to slumber.
I don’t want to miss a second of this.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Trilby
The first waking thought that enters my head is,How on earth is this bed so comfortable?The second thought is,I feel strangely rested, as though Iactuallyslept.
I snuggle deeper into the bed. Then the bed moves.
My eyelids snap open, and my breath escapes. My palm is pressed flat against a wall of skin. Skin that isn’t mine.
“Good morning.”
The vibration of his voice makes me freeze. It came from beneath my palm.
I slowly piece together the rest of the picture. My bottom is cradled in his lap, and his arms are entwined around my shoulders, pressing me firmly into his hold.
Wait a minute ...I thought I locked the door.
I glance upward, momentarily lost for words. The whole top half of his body is bare, his hair is adorably messed up, and his inked skin is covered in a silky sheen. I swallow as his eyes roammy face, searching for any evidence I might have fallen apart in the night. It’s not likely if he’s been holding me as tightly as he is now.
My limbs turn solid in his grip. This is so far beyond appropriate I might as well be humping his leg.
“Cristiano . . .” I whisper.
“You had a bad dream.”
My chest hollows out. I only ever know what it feels like when I wake up screaming; I have no idea how it sounds.
“How do you know?”
He loosens his grip, but only a little. “I heard it. You were crying ... and then you were screaming. I couldn’t just lie in my room and listen.”
My heart sinks. “Your neighbors ...”
His chest heats. “Fuck my neighbors. I couldn’t let you carry on suffering like that alone.”
I breathe out steadily, my head spinning from trying not to register every single spot where our bare skin touches.
“I’ve managed for a long time. What’s another night?”
A low growl rumbles in his chest. “Does this happen every night?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Most nights, maybe.”
One of his hands leaves my shoulder, and he scrubs it down his face. Exasperation looks good on him. To be honest, any damn emotion would look good on him.
