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I don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve her.
But I’m too selfish to walk away.
I help her set up the machine, arranging fabric and thread on the table. It’s been years since I’ve done this, but the motions come back like muscle memory.
Lil watches me, her head cocked to the side. I can practically see the gears turning behind those keen eyes, trying to figure me out. Good luck with that, princess. I’m a mystery even to myself most days.
“Okay, I think that’s everything.” I straighten up.
She steps closer to the machine, but she doesn’t sit. Instead, she chews on that plump lip, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh.
Christ, the things I want to do to that mouth…
Focus, Barron.
She peers up at me from under her lashes, almost shy. “Will you sit down?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Please?” She gestures to the chair, an uncharacteristic uncertainty in her stance.
Far be it from me to deny her anything. I lower myself into the seat, still not quite sure what game we’re playing here. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” She moves toward me.
My hands flex on my thighs. What is she…
Oh.
Oh fuck.
She lowers herself onto my lap with a wiggle that shoots straight to my cock. My hands fly to her hips, steadying her. Stopping her. Because if she keeps moving like that, this is going to be over before it starts.
“Lil.” It’s half warning, half plea.
She just hums. “Put your arms around me.”
Jesus Christ.
I obey, my arms encircling her tiny waist and my chin finding the crook of her neck. She smells like home. Like everything I’ve ever wanted. Chocolate.
The machine whirs to life, and she starts to sew, the fabric slipping through her fingers. And I watch, entranced by her movements, scent, and the whirring of the machine.
In this moment, she’s not the broken girl haunted by her past. She’s an artist. A creator. Utterly in her element.
And I get to witness it. Get to hold her through it.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away. Minutes. Hours. Does it matter?
All I know is I never want it to end.
But then she huffs out a sigh, the machine stuttering to a stop. “Damn it.”
“What’s wrong?” I peer over, trying to see the problem.
“The thread keeps getting tangled. I can’t seem to get it right.”
“Here, let me.” I reach around her, taking the thread from her fingers.