The scar on his face bristled with his smile, itching. His lips fell, his fingers rubbing his cheek. She could cut him far deeper than a bullet or a knife.
He clenched his jaw and gripped the railing. He couldn't fathom backing away from whatever this was. There was so much about her, her unpredictability and her routines, her strength and her brokenness, that made him want to go all the way, wherever that might take him.
Tonight, he would sleep with her in his arms. She deserved someone better, but at the very least, he could come to bed freshly showered.
Her footsteps pattered around in the loft. All the dangerous weapons were locked up. He dashed to the bathroom and grabbed a five-minute shower.
When he climbed the stairs again, it was with renewed purpose. At the top, he found her digging through her bags. “What are you looking for?”
“Pajamas.” She moved to another bag.
He hadn't packed those, either. “Wasting your time.” He shed the towel around his waist and stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head, blissfully naked. “We both know you sleep like this.”
She didn't look at him, but her arms stopped moving, elbows deep in a bag. “I hate that you know that.”
He could see how the stalking stuff might bug her, but... “I won't apologize for that.” His obsessive habit had led him to her. “Come to bed.”
He anticipated another fight, one where she would refuse to undress and he would win because, well, he always won. But in bewitching Amber-fashion, she shocked him again.
Rising to her feet, she faced him with her hands on the hem at her thighs and tugged it up and over her head. Gorgeously nude in the glow of the lamp, she walked to the hamper, folded the dress, and placed it on the pile of dirty clothes. She stared at it for several heartbeats with her lips pursed and her eyebrows pulled in.
He shifted to his side, lifting on an elbow. Was it the sight of her laundry mixed with his? Or maybe she had some kind of ritual that involved sorting clothes in multiple hampers? Would the absence of her system trigger another breakdown? He refused to go to her. He wanted her to come to him when she was upset. “Amber?”
She looked up, and her fingers flew to her knuckles. Crack-Crack—
“Amber.” He put force in his voice and grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his lower half and holding it up in invitation.
Her eyes darted to his face then lowered to his sleepy dick. She continued to stare, cracking her knuckles, as he recited the U.S. Presidents. “Washington, Adams, Jefferson” —Madison— “Mac...No, uh, Roe—”
“What are you doing?” She lowered her hands and approached the bed, head cocked.
Good girl. Keep walking.
His arm was growing tired of holding up the blanket. “Who was the fourth president?”
“Madison.” She blinked. “Why?”
He was bored a couple years ago, in between slaves, and passed the time by memorizing all the presidents, first ladies, and trivial facts about each. Now he used it to distract her from a meltdown, as well as to keep his dick from hardening and scaring her away.
“Takes my mind off things.” He glanced down at his flaccid cock and could feel the weight of her eyes there, too.
In the next breath, the lamp clicked off, and her knee landed beside him. Before he could catch his breath, she curled around him, arm hooked at his back and leg nudging between his.
Christ Almighty, what a goddamned fulfilling feeling, her hard feminine muscles and soft curves all up against him. He rolled to his back and savored the warm weight of her tight body pressed against his side. She felt fucking amazing, all relaxed and accepting, holding him as if she appreciated the intimacy as much as he did.
This was his new favorite position, and his dick wasn't even inside her. Hell, he wasn't even hard.
How was it that just twelve hours ago he'd held her at gunpoint, drugged her, and forced himself inside her. How could she have admitted she liked him or have any desire to snuggle against his body? But she had, and she was.
She wasn't normal.
He released a long, conflicted breath. They would never be normal. It just wasn't in their blood. He gripped her thigh, hooking it over his, and coiled his fingers around her hair. Fuck normal.
Her exhale warmed his neck, and the pad of her thumb traced his collarbone. “When was the last time you slept beside someone?”
“More than a year ago.” Which didn't exactly conjure sweet memories. On those rare occasions when Liv actually stayed in his bed, he'd never felt so alone. “She was the only one. What about you?”
“Brent was the first and last.” Her tits pushed against his ribs as she breathed in. “What was her name?”
“Liv.”