Page 91 of Hopeless
It doesn’t.
“No, I’m scared of you becoming something I can’t live without.”
She sucks in a breath as I stalk confidently toward her.
“I’m scared of taking something I don’t deserve, something we both know will lead to a bigger mess than we’re already in.”
I kneel beside the bath, propping my elbows on the edge and staring her down.
“This isn’t a mess—”
“I’m scared of having to go to work tomorrow and spending all day with a hard-on because I’m wondering if you went for a triangle or strip.”
All she does is stare back and breathe heavily as I reach into the hot, soapy water and trail a hand over her thigh to her knee. Leaning closer, I whisper against her ear, “And I’m fucking scared of what I’ll do when the day comes I find out some other fucker gets to help you decide these things.”
She regards me carefully, arms propped on the ledge, breaths even but shallow, dark eyes sparkling like the river at 2:11. My palm slides up and down her thigh, never going too far.
“Okay, but tonight … are you helping me or leaving?”
I mull the question over, telling myself Ishouldleave while admitting to myself I’m not sure why I think I need to. Is it because she’s younger? Is it because I’ve become borderline obsessed with helping her and I worry that this will all just hurt her in the end?
Or am I worried it will hurtmein the end? I don’t know if I can handle being hurt anymore.
She squeezes her thighs together, trapping my hand between them and forcing my eyes from the crackling bubbles up to hers.
We stay like that for a beat, and then I say, “Helping you.”
26
Bailey
Ithought he’d leave. I thought he’d say my name in that one-word scolding way of his. The one that saysstop, you’re testing my patience.
But he didn’t.
And now I don’t know what to say back. So I nod, stomach aflutter, words failing me.
I’m scared of you becoming something I can’t live without.
File that away under sentiments I don’t know what to do with.
I ease off on squeezing his hand between my legs and search his face for any sign he might back out. That he might come to his senses and walk away. I don’t want to tie my self-esteem to a man’s response, but if Beau Eaton walks out the door telling me this was a mistake, I don’t know how I’ll look him in the eye again.
“So,” my voice cracks on a suddenly dry throat, “triangle or strip, what’s better?”
The column of his throat works as his arm moves again. On this swipe, his hand moves higher than before, over that dip just above my inner thighs, painfully close to my core. His broad palm slips over my stomach, skirting the boundary as his fingertips trace the lower ridge of my opposite hip bone.
I buck against his hand, all sensation and foreign twinges. I can’t see his hand through the thick layer of bubbles, but, god, I can feel it.
“Neither is better, Bailey. I already told you this. I’m just here to see what you decide.”
“But what do men li—”
“No. Don’t ask yourself that. What doyoulike?”
He looks incredibly handsome, kneeling beside the tub. I want to drag him in here with me.
“I mean … ” I lick my lips, trying to form words when every cell in my body is ready to explode over the sensation of Beau’s fingers tracing my hip. His eyes on me make me feel exposed, even though soapy white bubbles conceal my entire body. “I don’t know what I like. I usually just trim everything. As I’m sure you noticed the other night.”
