Page 72 of Dial L for Lawyer
He grins, not even bothering with sarcasm. "Worth it?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny. I'm missing most major muscle function and I’m down to at least two brain cells."
He rolls toward me, propping himself up just enough to press his mouth to my collarbone. "You're magnificent when you let go. When you stop thinking and just feel."
"Shut up." I slap at his arm, which is like slapping concrete. "You're ridiculous."
He just smiles wider and tugs me against his chest, and for a while, I let myself rest there, skin to skin, every inch of me humming and alive. For the first time, I don't want to run. I want to stay. I want to stay in this moment, in this sweat-smudged haven, with his hand tangled in my hair and his thigh pressed against mine, and not sabotage it with doubt or distance or compulsive jokes about serial killers.
For once, I want to just be. No armor, no apologies, no exit strategies. Just this: skin and sweat and the terrifying possibility that maybe I'm exactly enough.
CHAPTER 20
Serena
Fuck. I’m naked.
Not just naked—naked in broad daylight in Caleb Kingsley’s bed. No clothes, no armor—no shapewear to hold anything in place.
Mirrors everywhere. Windows, too. Who designs a bedroom to be seen from space?
His arm is heavy over my waist, breath warm at the back of my neck. Asleep. Good.
I ease his arm away an inch at a time. If I can make it to the bathroom, maybe I can find a robe, resurrect last night’s dress, resurrect my dignity.
“Where are you going?” His arm tightens.
“Bathroom,” I whisper, already clutching the sheet.
"Mmm." He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Come back."
"I will. Just…let me up."
His hand slides down to my hip, and panic crackles. In the morning light, he'll see everything. The loose skin on mystomach. The stretch marks. The way my thighs jiggle and the skin kinda drapes… Oh crap.
"Serena." His voice is more awake now. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just need?—"
I grab the top sheet, trying to wrap it around myself as I sit up, clutching the fabric to my chest like it's body armor and not a limp, crumpled bedsheet. I hear Caleb exhale—a soft, almost affectionate huff behind me—and then his palm glides up my spine, slow and steady. I go rigid. The sheet is clamped in my fists, but it's not nearly enough for dignity. My back, and everything I hate about it, is entirely exposed.
He doesn't say anything. Just smooths his hand along my vertebrae, then to my shoulder, like he could press me back into the shape I was before I ruined it. Or maybe he just likes touching me. Maybe, for him, the visible flaws are invisible. But for me, every raised bump and line and soft spot is a bullhorn, shrieking across the white of his sheets.
"Hey," he says, low and clear.
I don't answer, just yank the sheet tighter, managing to pull enough free to wrap around myself.
"Serena."
"I need to use the bathroom."
"OK. But why are you trying to—" Understanding dawns on his face. "Are you seriously hiding your body from me? After last night?"
"That was different."
"How?"
"It was dark! We were drunk and?—"
