Page 82 of ICED
Ido.
I want herbadly. But more than that, I want her to feel wanted. Worshipped. Safe.
Her hands thread through my hair, tugging just enough to drive me a little mad, and I let her. Let her take what she needs for her feel in control. But then she pulls back, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, and whispers, “Stay tonight.”
My heart stumbles.
She’s still in my lap, and every part of me is screaming yes. But I don’t answer right away. Instead, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and study her face. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. And I don’t want you to go.”
I search her eyes for any flicker of doubt, but all I see is honesty.
So, I kiss her again; slower this time, more reverent. Then Ilet my forehead rest against hers. “I’ll stay,” I murmur. “But I’ll take the sofa.”
Her brows knit. “You don’t have to,”
“Ido,” I cut in gently. “Not because I don’t want you. Hell, Maya, you have no idea how much Ido, but because she’s down that hallway.”
Her eyes soften instantly.
“I respect what you’ve built here,” I say. “And I’m not stepping over that line until you’re ready. All the way ready.”
She nods, and it’s not disappointment I see, it’s gratitude.
“You’re a good man, Owen.”
I shrug, trying to play it off, but it still hits me right in the chest. Every time she says my name like that, I feel like more than what I used to be. She kisses me again, slow and warm, before slipping off my lap.
“I’ll get you a blanket.”
I smile. “Just don’t make it pink and glittery.”
“No promises.”
She disappears into the hallway, and I take another sip of wine, trying to get my heart rate back to normal. The sofa’s not exactly long enough for a bloke my size, and the throw blanket is aggressively floral, but I’ve never been more content.
Because I’m here.
In this home. In her world.
And that feels like everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAYA
Sleep won’t come.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my fingers twisted in the sheets, and my brain spinning with the memory of Owen’s hands, his mouth, the feel of him beneath me. He’s here but he’s in the next room. On the sofa. Alone. Because he’s respectful and good and goddamn impossible.
But I don’t want respectful tonight.
I slide out of bed quietly, careful not to creak the floorboards. Lila’s sleeping soundly in her room. The flat is dark and still, save for the dim light from the kitchen. I find him curled on the sofa, one arm slung behind his head, the other draped over his chest. His mouth is parted slightly in sleep, brows relaxed, chest rising and falling in that slow, steady rhythm I’ve come to crave.
I don’t hesitate.
I climb onto the sofa and straddle him, just like earlier. His eyes blink open, sleepy and warm, and then go wide.
