Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
But for now, it’ll have to do.
40
AFTER ALL THIS TIME
Asher
This won’t be our first night together in bed. It’ll be our third as husband and wife. But we’ve shared beds before this too. Like the one in the ice hotel. We shared a room on that trip—that was the point. To freeze together.
Then, there were our sleeping bags, lined up next to each other in the tree tent.
Another time when we went on a tour of amusement parks up and down the California Coast, we shared a room in the All Aboard Inn, a hotel with suites built from old train cars. We pretended we were rich Europeans solving a murder mystery.
But this time is different for me. Since it’s the first time I’ll get in bed thinking too hard about the future rather than the present.
It’s all I can think about even after we forage the fridge for leftovers, even after we return to the bedroom, even after we slip under the fresh sheets and covers.
I meet her gaze once more, taking in her still bee-stung lips, the flush on her cheeks, her playful eyes. Then, those two books on the nightstand. They’re just books, but they’re also the signs of Maeve. They’re positioned a little haphazardly, like she does live here. Not like she was trying to make them neat as a guest. But like she’s comfortable in my home.
Is this even real? I run a hand down her arm like I need confirmation. Yep, real. She’s here, and she’s not leaving, and she’s not laying down rules, and she’s got my ring on her finger.
She’s my wife for the rest of the season.
It’s a wild, addictive thought, and my mind won’t stop thinking it, over and over. It’s barely ten. I’m not at all tired. I’m not even sure she is, so I say, “Do you want to watch something?”
“As long as it’s not a drama.”
“Do I look like I’d play a drama?”
“Nope,” she says with a pop of her lips, then runs a hand up my chest, playing with the hair on my pecs. It’s a familiar gesture, one I hope she turns into a habit. But her brow furrows. “Asher?”
That tone. The question in her voice. I tense. “Yeah?”
“I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to be friends. If we had sex,” she says, vulnerable, looking up at me. “But this is nice. I think we can. And I’m so glad.”
Has there ever been a more double-edged sword in my existence? Her words should be good. But they’re a reminder of how far apart we are. And what we stand to lose if this goes sideways. Still, I say from the heart, “Me too.”
Because I don’t want to lose her. Ever.
When I reach for the remote on the nightstand, Maeve slides closer, snuggling tighter against me. Fuck, that’s nice. My heart thuds hard. So loud she has to be able to hear it. I will it to quiet down.
I run my hand over her hair again. I can’t seem to stop touching her as I aimlessly search the streaming options, barely paying attention to the screen.
But then she freezes for a few seconds before she inches away from me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She backs away more. “I don’t want to crowd you in bed.”
That won’t do, her slipping away. “You’re not crowding me,” I say, meeting her gaze in the soft glow of the room, shaded blue and then green as the TV screen reflects on her face.
Worry lines her eyes. “It’s cool. Not everyone likes to cuddle.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“I know.”
“Is this your way of saying you don’t want to cuddle?” I counter, slightly guarded. I hope that’s not what she’s saying.
“No. It’s that…I want to be respectful of your space,” she says, full of tact.
I scoff. “Fuck respect,” I say, then raise my arm, inviting her back into the crook of my shoulder. “Get over here. And fuck those everyones who made you think guys don’t like to cuddle.”
She smiles. “Well, well, well. I guess I’ve learned you’re officially a cuddler.”
“Shut up and cuddle,” I say, then haul her against me.
“There you go again—giving me orders.”
“And you love them,” I tease. She does, and it’s easier to just be in this moment rather than think too hard about what happens tomorrow, next week, and next month.
She primly pulls the covers up. “I’m an independent woman. I don’t want a man to tell me what to do.” She pauses and shoots me a mischievous look. “Unless we’re in bed and he wants to hold my throat.”
That’s a hell of a roadmap. She’s in her sleep cami, so I slide a palm over her chest, up her throat, then around it, gently holding her in place. “Such a good wife,” I say, low and smoky.
She shivers, then whispers, “Next time.”