My inexperience and discomfort had felt like a shameful curse.
Cal made me come with his clothes on while my ex-husband hadn’t even bothered to try. My tormented mind spirals. If Namik could affect me this much when I didn’t even like him, allowing my emotions to run rampant with Cal will destroy me.
I scramble to draw a boundary to protect myself.
“Don’t say things like that.”
His brows knot at my command.
“The words,” I explain weakly. “I know what this is between us.”
Head cocked to the side, he asks, “What’s that?”
“Temporary.”
29
ALIA
Isay it as much as a reminder to myself as it is to him.
“We’re. . . fuck-buddies,” I reiterate, cringing at both the curse and the term itself. Neither feels right, but Cal is used to sharing his body without sharing his mind or heart. I’ve yet to learn that.
“So, being friends who sleep together means I shouldn’t speak with you after kissing you?” he asks, brows arched superciliously.
I pull myself off him to settle against the headboard, holding the sheets up to my chest, as if it’ll strengthen the walls I need to build.
“I only mean that I don’t need all the pretty words. The compliments and the post-coital cuddles.”
“Right. Because it’ll be so much better if I fuck you silently and leave.” Still sitting at the foot of the bed, he hunches over to rest his elbows on his knees. I can’t see his face, but his voice is terse, his words clipped when he says, “Is that what you truly want?”
My stomach turns, the ache in my chest growing at the thought of being left alone now. When he puts it like that, it sounds so. . . cold. I look up to find mossy eyes locked on me, glimmering with something which—to my immense confusion—looks like hurt. No, that makes no sense. Cal’s history with women is prolific. Why would an offer to keep emotions out of this hurt him?
“Wouldn’t that be better?”
“Fuck, no. I’m a man who likes to talk in bed. And I promise you, you won’t be quiet with me either.”
Just like that, my pulse fires up again and my core clenches around the glaring emptiness within. He’s silent, as am I, neither able to look away. The moment between us stretches so taut, it’ll snap if either of us blinks.
I concede.
“I’m sorry.”
The tightness in his stance doesn’t lessen.
“I’m not good at this, Cal. I’m trying to be who I think I should be in a friends-with-benefits arrangement. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
The side of his jaw visible to me twitches, like he’s digesting what I’ve confessed. He stands up, reaches over his neck, and rips his shirt off, displaying all his glorious back muscles. My gaze snags on the spirals of ink covering his shoulder, a glowing sun with its rays snaking down his upper arm. At the bottom, a group of birds fly in formation.
I’m so distracted by his tattoo that I don’t realize him reaching for me until he tugs me to lie under him. Gentle fingers stroke my cheek, gripping my chin and nudging my face up.
“I’m not mad at you,” he gruffs. “I’m mad at the asshole who made you believe you don’t deserve to hear you’re stunning or be cuddled and pampered after sex. I’m fucking pissed you’re afraid of trusting a compliment.That’swhat I’m angry about.”
I reach up to touch his chest, but he traps my wrist, pinning it on the bed beside my head.
“Let’s fix your misapprehensions, Tots.”
One fist bunches the fabric pooled at my waist, a gentle tug requesting permission. Wordlessly, I raise my hips, letting him drag the rest of my dress off along with my thong. I have no time to adjust to the fact that I’m naked because I find myself flipped sideways, my back to his chest. He shifts behind me and within moments, a gentle light suffuses the room.