Page 108 of Hopeless
The dancing, my life, this deal with her—I mean all of it. I have no idea what I’m doing. And for a man who’s had a plan for so damn long, it terrifies me.
She sways against me, fingers raking through the closely trimmed hair at the back of my head. “You’re just being here with me. That’s all I want.”
She turns and leans her back against my chest, ass brushing against my cock. I let myself settle into the thought that maybe it’s okay to have no idea what I’m doing.
That being here with Bailey is enough.
That maybe she wants more than this arrangement, impossible as it might have seemed originally.
I spend all night on the fucking dance floor, swaying to the beat, while Bailey dances against me with a heart-rending smile on her face.
“Beau, take me home,” she finally asks.
Of course, I’m more than happy to do that too. But this time, I don’t just hold her leg at red lights. I reach back and grip her thigh for the entire wordless drive back to Chestnut Springs.
And I swear she holds me closer than she ever has before.
By the time we make it home, I’ve realized that I’ll probably give this girl anything she wants.
A ring.
Sex.
Forever.
30
Beau
Our silence carries us through the house. Somehow, the comfort between us has grown, and so has the tension.
She’s slipped into an oversized vintage Madonna T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh and casts curious glances my way through the mirror when I bring my toothbrush into her bathroom to brush my teeth next to her.
Did I take one look at my empty bathroom and then opt to brush my teeth in hers instead?
Yes.
I don’t want to be far away from her, and I’m too tired to fight it right now.
We spit our toothpaste simultaneously, and both of us awkwardly reach for the tap. Our hands bump, and we yank back like the brief touch electrocuted us.
Her eyes snag on my naked torso as I mumble, “Sorry.”
She clears her throat, blinking away. “Don’t be. What are you—”
“Where are you—”
Our words collide with each other clumsily. After a fun night spent yelling at each other over the blare of electronic music, the house is too quiet.
Too private.
We’re out of places to hide from each other.
“Can I stay with—” I start, right as she says,
“I need to masturbate.”
My earlier sentence dies on my lips. “Come again?”
