Page 41 of Hold Me Tight

To how patient he is and how he anticipates needs I have yet to verbalize. Everything about him, from his quiet protectiveness to the thoughtful way he speaks, feels like a balm on raw, exposed skin. It’s the kind of comfort I’ve stopped letting myself long for.

I shove the thought from my mind before it can take root.

No one sticks around forever.

Especially when it gets hard.

Even though I want to stand under the water until my skin prunes, I force myself to turn the dial off. I grab one of the plush towels from the open shelf and wrap it around my body. After drying off, I pull on the only clean clothes I brought in here with me. Sleep shorts and a comfy ribbed tank top.

They’re not meant to be sexy.

But when I glance in the mirror, my stomach flips. The fabric clings to every curve, the chilled air in the bathroom highlighting just how thin the top is. My nipples are clearly visible through the cotton. I tug at the material, but it’s hopeless.

There’s nothing else in the bag to wear.

Perfect.

My pulse stutters as I crack the bathroom door open, just enough to peek into the bedroom. River’s head turns immediately, his eyes locking on mine with laser focus. His gaze drops as I step into the room, raking over my bare legs, pausing at my hips, lingering at the hem of my tank before climbing slowly back up to my face.

Heat crawls up my neck as I tug at the edge of the shirt, even though it does absolutely nothing to hide what’s already on display.

He remains silent.

There’s no smirking or teasing.

But the intensity of his stare says everything.

I practically scurry to the bed and climb in, pulling the sheet and blanket up to my chin like some sort of protective shield. My heart finally begins to slow once I’m cocooned beneath the covers.

The mattress is more like a cloud, and the sheets are cool and silky against my skin.

And yet, nothing about this moment feels harmless.

The real danger isn’t the man next to me.

It’s how easily I’m starting to want him.

He doesn’t say a word as he remains stretched out beside me. He’s all lean muscle and quiet strength, the kind of man who seems comfortable, confident, and unshakable.

Like having a woman in his bed is nothing new.

I stare at the ceiling as my mind spins with doubts and questions. Instead of staying buried, they rise to the surface like bubbles in boiling water.

Before I can stop myself, the one that’s been uppermost in my mind slips out. “What is it exactly that you expect from me?”

He shifts, turning toward me. His elbow sinks into the mattress, bringing him even closer. My nerves snap to full attention.

He watches me for a beat before his gaze drops to my mouth and then lifts back to my eyes. “Nothing.”

The word lands softly, but it feels like a seismic shift.

His hand moves slowly, like he’s giving me time to pull away. When his fingers brush my cheek, I flinch out of reflex, not fear. But he doesn’t withdraw. Instead, he lets the touch settle.

“I don’t expect anything from you, Callie,” he says gently. “I’m not here to take anything you’re not ready to give. I’m not going to sleep with you just because we’re in the same bed. Not until you want it too.”

It’s the kind of thing a man says in a movie. Something scripted to melt a woman on the spot.

My eyes go wide.