He pulls me down and kisses me softly. “Can I sleep with you tonight? No sex, I just want to feel you against me.”
“I’d like that,” I whisper. I climb off his lap, and we hold hands as we walk upstairs together. He leads me into the master bedroom, and I want to say no. I don’t want to sleep in this room with him, but oddly enough, a sense of calm washes over me. I can’t explain it, but somehow, it feels right. Maybe it’s morbid, but something deep inside of me tells me Blake would be okay with this; that he would want this for us. Connor strips down to his boxers while I change into a nightshirt in the bathroom. He’s already in bed when I come out, so I crawl in next to him and curl into him. We’re spooning and since having him half-naked in my bed is the purest form of torture, I have to punish him a little too. We’re spooning, and as my body fits his, I wiggle my ass against him.
“Demi,” he growls, low and throaty, his erection pressing against me.
“I was just getting comfortable,” I lie, a smile in my voice.
He inhales deeply and mumbles something under his breath about me being the death of him.
I chuckle, enjoying the thought that even if we are both riddled with want for each other, basking in desire that won’t be sated tonight, at least we’re in it together.
“Goodnight, Connor,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, babe,” he mumbles against my shoulder before giving it a chaste kiss.
And then, for the first time since Blake passed away, I find immense peace and sleep better than I have in years.
In Connor Stevens arms.
I wake up just before dawn, the morning light leaking into the room. Connor is passed out cold. We’re in the same position we were when we fell asleep; big spoon, little spoon, and I know his arm must be asleep. I gently move away from him and climb out of bed, needing to use the bathroom. Stopping, I stare at him for a moment. All of those tattoos. He’s like a walking canvas. I close my eyes and suck in a steady breath. I don’t know what’s happening between us or where it will go, but I do know sleeping in his arms last night was everything. I tiptoe to the bathroom, and when I’m done, I head downstairs to make us a pot of coffee. It’s funny how the idea of drinking a cup of coffee in bed with him excites me so much. I guess sometimes it’s the simple things in life.
The pot is brewing, and I’ve just pulled down two mugs when I hear a knock at my back door. Through the glass pane, Wendy gives me a sheepish smile. I frown, sad that even with our disagreement she felt she had to knock. Opening the door, I give a halfway friendly smile.
“You didn’t have to knock,” I tell her.
She nods once, her eyes dropping to the floor before rising to meet mine again. “I wasn’t sure. I thought you might . . . I don’t know. Hate me.”
“I could never hate you,” I clarify. We’ve never been in this place before; the place where family/best friends have a problem that has affected their relationship negatively.
“Can we talk?” she asks.
“Have a seat,” I motion to the table before walking back to the pot. “Cup of Joe?”
“Please,” she answers.
Once I’m seated across from her, she sips her coffee hesitantly, careful not to burn herself. I say nothing. I just wait and let her take the lead. Finally, her gaze meets mine, her eyes riddled with tears. “I’m sorry, Demi.”
I nod once, reaching across the table and taking her hand in mine. “I’m sorry too. I just . . . wanted to help. I should have been more delicate about it.”
“We had him tested,” she admits. “It was only testing through the school. He hasn’t been medically diagnosed yet. You were right, though. He’s high functioning autistic.” Her last words come out on a sob, and I quickly switched seats so I could sit next to her and hug her.