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“Yeah, you are. But you need rest, and so do I, and I can’t do that if you’re down here ruminating.”
Hearing such a complex word rolling off his tongue should not turn me on, but... it does. And he’s right. I could sit here all night reliving every minute we were stuck in that elevator. Driving myself mad with memories of his lips slamming into mine. Making up stories about Katherine and Alex and all the fun they’re having without us.
Night is fucking evil. And my demons know exactly how to hurt me.
He wiggles his fingers, waiting for me to take his hand.
I slide my palm against his, and his grip tightens. And just like that, the tables are turned. Now,he’shelpingme. Tugging me to my feet.
There’s a charged moment when we’re toe-to-toe, still touching. Does he remember those heated moments? How good it felt when I straddled his lap and pulled him back from the darkness?
Anticipation sizzles between us, a lively current, whipping and snapping.
He said rest, but this doesn’t feel restful. It’s like a wave coming in. Swelling with hope.
But he lets my hand go and takes a step back. I feel the reluctance in his movement. What a pair we are. Me unable to sleep, and him terrified of elevators.
“I—” I stumble over my words. It’s hard to admit my vulnerabilities. But if he can do it, so can I. “I don’t sleep much.”
“I’ve noticed.” The corner of his mouth hitches up in a half smile that has me sharing more.
“It’s hard to turn my brain off. Sometimes I have nightmares.”
He nods and tucks his hands in his back pockets. “Okay.”
God, he’s handsome. My stomach clenches, aching and needy. But that’s the least remarkable thing about this moment. His relaxed posture invites me to say more. Or say less. He’s not rushing or pressing.
He’s just here, with me, waiting and content. One of the few people in the world who doesn’t feel entitled to a piece of me.
How fucking novel.
“Maybe we should watch a movie. Would that help?” he asks, throwing me back to the night we fell asleep on my sectional.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
I’ve tried everything, but honestly, the best sleep I’ve had in years has been this week when one of them is next to me.
He leads the way back to the bedroom he selected on the second floor. On the side of the bed nearest the door, the covers are thrown back. The slender lamp on the nightstand glows, waiting for his return. His shirt is draped over a chair in the corner.
“Which side do you want?” he asks easily, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
As if he’s not a born and bred billionaire and I’m not a self made man eight years older than him. As if we didn’t make out in an elevator only a few hours ago. As if there’s not enough tension crackling between us to power this block for a week.
But he was right the other day, too. We need to talk to Katherine. There’s a lot to discuss.
“I could...” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the other bedrooms.
He glances past me and then looks me in the eye. “You sleep best when you’re next to someone, right?”
“I doubt I’d sleep well next to a serial killer.”
“Gabe—”
His hands move to the button of his pants.
“Yeah?”
There’s a soft snick as he undoes the zipper.