Page 63 of Hopeless
The feeling of helplessness pricks at my eyes as I watch him struggling against thin air, reliving some sort of horror.
And my heart can’t take it.
I might get knocked across the room by a stray limb, but I don’t care.
I approach his bed, calmly chanting, “Beau. Beau. Beau.” I reach out with caution and touch his shoulder. He stills almost instantly but doesn’t wake. “Hey, Beau. I’m here.”
“You’re here.” His voice cracks and he reaches for me. His clammy palm clamps around my arm.
“Yeah. It’s Bailey. I’m here. You’re okay.”
“You’re here,” he says again. This time, his tone bleeds relief. This time, he tugs me toward him.
And I go. I don’t have it in me to resist him right now. As I climb on his bed, my chest aches from his expression—pinched forehead, eyes squeezed shut, and no trace of the humor that painted his handsome features mere hours ago.
With one hand on my arm and one at my waist, he drags me to him, gathering me against his chest.
And very naked body.
But this isn’t sexual.
I’m not sure he recognizes who I am right now, but he holds me like I’m a comfort to him. He holds me like I held my sadly departed stuffed horse.
His thick arms wrap around me as I sprawl over him, head tucked under his chin, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.
I can feel the bulge of his cock, firm but not hard, against my inner thigh where my shorts have ridden up.
I can feel his chest hair against my bare breasts where my flimsy crop top has been displaced.
I can feel his deep breaths, his lungs filling and emptying, making me rise and fall in time as though I’m riding a wave while he catches his breath.
“What time is it, Bailey?” His voice is all gravel, his hold not loosening.
I peek over my shoulder at the clock. “Two twelve.”
One of his palms slides up the column of my spine to cup the back of my head. “Good.”
Then I feel him kiss my hair.
17
Beau
Ishouldn’t have dragged her into my arms. Not when we’re here, alone, in the dark.
Not when I’m unraveled the way I am right now.
Not when I can’t blame it on being for show.
Not when I want to do so much—
Bailey’s head turns and her lips dust across the hollow at the base of my throat. I swallow, Adam’s apple working as she kisses just below it again. Puffy lips press against my chest.
Awareness trickles in as her nipples harden and point against my chest.
I should stop.
My hand slides down her firm back, toned from long hours spent working, and my fingers dust over the thick elastic waistband that they meet.
