One minute I was on fire, wanting more, and the next, I felt him hard against my inner thigh and some synapse in my brain misfired. Memories, flashbacks, I don’t even know. The panic just took over and I couldn’t see up from down anymore.
So I ran.
I bolted like a pathetic, traumatized child who doesn’t know how to use her words. And even now, half an hour later, hair wet and ratty from a scalding hot shower, cheeks painted in mascara streaks, I still can’t explain what happened.
Rowan pads cautiously into my room. I hear a softthunkand I don’t have to see it to know what he’s doing. He’s brought me a fresh glass of water, probably turned off all the lights, locked the doors.
He blames himself when nothing could be further from the truth.Iwas the one with all the sexy innuendo quips in the backyard earlier.Iclimbed intohislap. Yes, I said stop, but that was an impulsive outburst meant for me, not him. He didn’t do anything wrong and still, he stopped. Instantly.
“If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. You’ll never have to say that word twice. Not with me.”
The man possesses the self-control of a saint. And me? I’m a mess.
Through a series of long, deep breaths, I pull my pajamas back on, clean my face, and throw my wet hair up in a bun. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, the house is quiet, shut down for the night.
When I step into the room, he looks up from his perch on the foot of my bed. Soft light from the nightstand lamp casts a somber shadow over his face, devastation and concern etched into the intense lines of his expression.
He drops my gaze and stands to his feet. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”
I stride forward. “What? No.”
“Hannah, I?—”
My body slams into his, and I throw my arms around his waist, cheek hard against his collarbone. “Please stay.”
After a torturous beat, Rowan releases the pained breath in his lungs and wraps me up. His voice fractures around the words when he whispers, “I don’t know what to do.”
Stay. Don’t leave.
“It’s not you, I swear. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Hey.” The single syllable is both a demand and a plea as he eases me back by the shoulders until our eyes meet. “There’snothingwrong with you.”
But there is.
Emotion claws at my throat. I fist his shirt in my hands and lower his forehead to mine. “Don’t go. I want you here with me.”
He doesn’t argue, but the doubt remains when he climbs into bed next to me leaving a chasm of space between us that might as well be a mile. I shimmy onto my hip to face him. Hands clasped over his stomach, the veins in his neck twitch as he blinks up at the ceiling.
I reach over and cup his cheek. “Rowan.”
Slowly, like it kills him, he turns to look at me. “Tell me what you need, baby.”
The admission comes easier in the dark—in the space we’veestablished between our hearts where secrets are safe, fears are validated. “Ineedyou to touch me.”
Rowan rolls to his side. “Hannah, I don’t know if we should do?—”
“Not like that. I just mean, your hands…on me.”
He lowers my palm from his face, plants a tender kiss on the center of it. “Where?”
I hesitate, not exactly sure how I should reply.
“Where, Hannah?” he repeats more sternly but still kind.
“Um…my legs, maybe?”
A deep breath. “Come closer.”