All I know is that every cell in my body wants to touch him, but he seems to be in no hurry whatsoever, perfectly content with kissing.

My nipples are hard pebbles that even this blah polo shirt can’t hide, and I’m clenching my thighs to find some relief. My hands grip his shirt, keeping him close, wanting this to go on forever but needing more.

I moan into his kiss, and he stops abruptly, pressing his forehead to mine. I’d think something’s wrong, but he’s panting desperately and I can see how hungry for me he is.

“Not yet. Not like this.”

I am the only other person in the room, but I don’t think he’s talking to me. Talking to himself isn’t a red flag for me, though. I do it all the time and I’m perfectly sane.

Well, mostly. After all, I don’t talk to myself but to the dead. Much weirder.

“Not like how?” I ask, wanting to understand his holding back.

“You’re injured.”

“My ankle’s fine.”

“Not your ankle, your heart,” Blake says softly, his voice trembling with want and internal conflict. “It’s been bruised and beat up a bit, but I want you to know that you can trust me so you’ll let me in.”

I can’t help but smile at his romantic notions. “I wasn’t looking for you to climb into my heart and make a love nest. A kiss isn’t a promise and sex isn’t a marriage proposal,” I say, repeating his previous words to me. “I was more thinking along the lines of letting you in my body for a few minutes because you seem less freaked out by me than anyone I’ve met in a long while, and I could really use an orgasm that’s not self-administered.”

He lets out a groan of pain. “I would kill to see that, you know? Maybe literally.”

He doesn’t mean it. He’s too good, too kind, but I like that he’s to the point of exaggeration because I get the feeling that he doesn’t do that easily or often. He’s more dry facts and stats, even if he is a romantic at heart.

“And thanks for the vote of confidence, I think,” he says wryly. “But I’m not interested in being brushed off after one night when you get scared again.”

I cup his face back, looking into those calm, assured eyes. “That scares me.”

He places a gentle kiss to my nose. “I know. That’s why I’m going to leave now. Because if I stay here much longer, looking at your body all stretched out beneath these blankets that I know smell like you, I will not be able to be rational about this. About you.” His eyes trace the lumps and bumps my body make beneath the knit blanket I’ve had for years. “You make me irrational.”

He smiles at the very idea, and I can’t help but reach out and touch the wood nightstand next to me. He notices, his eyebrow lifting. “What was that for?”

I blush at being busted making the nonsensical move, but I tell the truth. “For good luck, because you make me think maybe I could get just a tiny bit of it for a change.”

Blake takes my hand in his, giving my fingers a squeeze. “I don’t believe in luck. I believe in this. I believe that we are shaped by all the things that happen to us, and we wouldn’t have gotten to this moment if anything in our lives had been different. And this moment? I wouldn’t have changed it. Good night, Zoey.”

He folds my fingers in his hand and lays a soft kiss, quick as a heartbeat, to my knuckles. I guess I really am a trailer park princess because I have never felt so feminine, even if it is with condensation from a bag of old peas dripping down my leg and a stupid smile on my face.

Blake gets up and starts to leave, pausing at the door. “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

His eyes drift over my face and down the lumpy bumps of blanket. I wonder what he’s thinking because he shakes his head ever so slightly and his eyes go a little soft but then crinkle at the corners as they narrow.

Seconds later, he’s gone. I hear the door open and then the screen, and then the doorknob rattles as he checks that it’s locked. I smile at his protectiveness. It’s been a long time since anyone’s taken care of me, maybe not since Grandma passed away, and I’m worried I’m already getting addicted to it.

And that’s dangerous for us both.

Chapter 11

Blake

The bar is hopping tonight.

Not rave style, with drunk people grinding and woo-hooing loudly over even louder music.

But that’s not what this place is about. It’s dimly lit except for the neon lights projected on the screen at the far end of the room, pitchers of mass-produced tap beer are on special, and the only cheers are the smack talking banter between teams.

“Oh! Too bad, Hale! Maybe next time you’ll get a topic you actually know something about! Like maybe the alphabet. What comes after K again?” Cole, a dark-haired, hotshot real estate agent, muses with a thick finger pointing my way and a huge, extra-white smile.

His teammate and business partner, Bryan, gives Cole a high-five and then turns my way to complete the slam Cole set up perfectly. “That’d be L for losers, I believe.”

Bryan holds his fingers, shaped in an L to his forehead, signaling that we’re losers because we lost one round. I don’t want to tell him he looks like an idiot, not yet. We’ve barely started our trivia competition for the night and I’m already done with Cole and his shit. Usually, I can stand him pretty easily since his insults are juvenile at best, unoriginal at worst.