Page 73 of Triple Play
“More than okay.” His voice is already growing drowsy, exhaustion finally winning now that he feels safe enough to let it. “You feel real. Solid. Not like a dream.”
“I’m real.” I shift slightly, adjusting my weight, and his arms tighten reflexively, holding me in place.
“Don’t move.” It’s almost a plea. “Please. This is—you’re perfect right here.”
So I stay, letting him use me as his anchor, his shield against the nightmares. I let my warmth seep into him, my breathing regulate his.
His hand moves lazily up and down my spine now, fingers tracing patterns that might be unconscious or deliberate. Either way, it’s stirring feelings in me I shouldn’t be experiencing—not now, not when he needs comfort, not with the heat building low in my belly.
But I can’t help my body’s response to him. I notice the way his thigh muscle flexes beneath mine, the way his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that’s becoming hypnotic. I breathe in his scent—clean soap and something darker, more masculine, making me want to press my nose against his neck and just inhale.
God, he smells good. Feels good. All warm, solid muscle and careful tenderness.
I feel guilty immediately. Hours ago, I had Jordie in my bed, his hands on my body, his mouth on mine. And now I’m here, draped over Wyatt as if I belong, my body responding to him in ways that have nothing to do with offering comfort.
What’s wrong with me?
But then Wyatt’s breathing starts to even out, becoming deeper and heavier, and I realize what’s happening.
He’s falling asleep. Actually falling asleep.
His hand stills on my back, his body going slack beneath mine. His heartbeat slows to something steady and strong under my ear.
I should move. I should let him sleep alone now that the crisis has passed.
But I don’t want to. More than that, I don’t think he’d let me.
“Elise?” His voice is drowsy, already halfway to sleep.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
Minutes pass. His breathing gets heavier, deeper. He’s falling asleep. Actually falling asleep.
Then I remember.
Jordie.
Shit.
I carefully extract myself from Wyatt’s arms. He makes a noise of protest but doesn’t wake, just curls into the pillow I was using.
I slip out of bed and pad to the door as quietly as possible. I check the hallway.
Jordie’s light is still on. He’s awake. Waiting.
Guilt twists in my stomach.
I tap softly on his door, and it opens immediately. He’s still dressed, clearly having not even tried to sleep. The look on his face—expectant, eager, then confused when he sees my expression—makes me feel like the worst person alive.
“Hey.” He leans against the doorframe, that golden boy smile starting to form. “I was beginning to think you forgot—”
“Raincheck,” I interrupt, keeping my voice low. “I’m sorry. Wyatt’s having a really bad night. He needs someone to be there for him right now.”
The smile fades. Confusion takes over. “What do you mean?”
