Page 37 of Awaiting the Storm
I move the pillow to the side and glance down.
I’m in nothing but an extra-large button-up flannel shirt. And it ain’t mine.
I sit up too fast and nearly topple back again, head swimming. I blink until the room goes still, gripping the edge of the bed like it’s an anchor tethering me to the earth. The shirtsleeves are too long, and the hem hits high on my thighs. I tug the collar up over my nose and inhale deeply. Sandalwood, sweat, and whiskey.
Oh God.
Caison.
The name hits me like a ton of bricks, and suddenly, my brain stutters to life, memories flickering behind my eyes like a busted neon sign.
Music pumping loudly at The Soused Cow. Me dancing with Caison. Me dancing with Carl. His hand too low on my back, too familiar. Me pulling away and leaving him standing on the dance floor. His declaration that he wasn’t giving up on us. Then Caison—God, Caison—tall and dark, watching me from the shadows near the bar. His jaw ticking and stare intense. Then I was in Caison’s arms again, swayingto a slow song. His strong hands gripping my waist possessively. The way his lips brushed my ear when he spoke to me, causing my skin to prickle. Then tequila. So much tequila.
I groan again, dragging myself from the bed, my bare legs protesting with every step toward the bathroom. As I pass by my dresser, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a disheveled mess.
I stumble into the bathroom and flick on the light, squinting as I examine myself more closely. The reflection doesn’t lie. I look like the aftermath of a storm—wild and shaken. My hair’s a tangled mess, mascara smudged under my bloodshot eyes, cheeks flushed, lips pink and swollen, like they’ve been … kissed.
Shit.
More memories begin to trickle in.
Carl and Caison shouting in the parking lot. Cabe trying to shove himself between them, arms out, holding them apart. Caison stripping off his outer shirt and wrapping it around my bare shoulders because I was shivering in the freezing night air in my thin, sleeveless dress. The feel of his fingers brushing the skin at my collarbone. The sound of his voice, low and patient, like he was trying very hard to keep his temper at bay.
Him helping me climb up into his truck.
Me huddled inside with my hands against the vents as the heat blasted into the cab, falling asleep against the window and then waking up, cradled in Caison’s arms as he carried me up the porch steps.
Charli unlocking the front door for us. Her delighted smirk. The way she didn’t say a damn word, just opened the door and let him carry me right up the stairs.
The way I clung to him. Wrapping my arms around his neck. Pressing my mouth to his.
Oh God, Matty.
I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, breathing through the memories.
His mouth on mine. The way he kissed me—hot, hungry, like he’d been dying to do it. And me? I kissed him back with equal fervor. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just passion and need and the rush of something that felt dangerously close to losing control.
And then…
Him pulling away.
Him staring down at me like it physically hurt him to walk out the door.
Me reaching for him as he stepped back.
Him whispering, “Don’t,” before backing away and slipping out into the hallway, leaving the door cracked and the scent of him lingering in the room.
Charli and Shelby rushing in not a minute later. My dress half off already, their hands tugging the zipper and removing it. Charli sliding the flannel back over my shoulders and buttoning it up. Their laughter soft and sweet as they eased me into the bed and covered me with a blanket.
And now?
Now I’m standing in my bathroom, wrapped in the shirt of a man I barely know, regretting just about everything that happened. I don’t lose control. Not like that. Not anymore.
Dammit.
I knew going out was a mistake.
I peel the shirt off slowly and step into the shower. The hot water is a balm on my aching body, but it can’t wash away the mortification I feel. I scrub at my skin like I can erase the memory of last night. Like I can undo the way I looked at Caison. The way I wanted him. The way it felt to be touched by him. To kiss him.
