Page 144 of The Unwilling Bride
He's not pulling away.
Not moving at all, except for the harsh rise and fall of his chest.
I thread my fingers through his hair. Dark. Thick. Still slightly damp from sleep.
He makes a sound. Low. Broken.
“Ember,” he whispers. “Ember, you’re here.”
How I love that nickname he has for me.
Something soft and melting squeezes my chest. A fierceness grips me. The need to protect him envelops me. To show him…it’s okay to be himself. To share who he is with me. To no longer hide his emotions from me.
I won’t let him hide again. Not from me. I want to soothe him. Protect him in this moment of vulnerability.
I tug him down.
He comes. Willingly. Almost desperately. Like he needs this. Like he needs me. More than air.
I pull his head into my chest, wrap my arms about his massive shoulders, and hug him.
He stiffens, as if the full body contact is a shock to him. But then, degree by degree, he relaxes.
He slides his arms around and under me, enveloping me in those massive arms. And even though it’s me trying to comfort him, I can’t help but also take comfort from the musky scent of his which surrounds me. The hardness of his muscles is contrasted by the almost desperate way he holds me.
The warmth from his body cocoons me. And when he leans more of his weight on me, pinning me to the bed, it doesn’t feel constricting. Instead, it makes me feel secure.
I hug him even closer. I tuck his head under my chin, trying to shelter him with comfort. Communicating to him the best I can without words that he's safe.
He’s so densely built; it feels like I’m hugging tempered steel wrapped in velvet. His body is all hard, unyielding, like it’s hewn from stone. There’s no soft place for me to land.
My chest twinges.
There’s not going to be a soft landing for me if I lose my heart to him. Though it might be a little too late for that.
I run my fingers through his hair, enjoying the feel of the thick strands.
He makes a contented sound at the back of his throat. His naked body relaxes further, pressing me into the bed. I’d be lying if I said the way he feels against me doesn't feel good and isn’t its own type of torture. But it’s also strangely comforting.
I’ve never felt this safe. This content as I do now, in his bed, surrounded by his sheets, with him nestled in between my breasts.
When he sighs again, and his body completely relaxes, I feel guilty for enjoying having him in my arms. He’s recovering from a nightmare brought on by what I realize must be PTSD, and all I can think of is jumping him.
“Maybe I should leave?” I try to edge away from under him.
He doesn’t budge.
“Stay.” He yawns and burrows further between my breasts. His breath warms my skin through the thin material of my sleeping T-shirt.
His breathing deepens. His body gives that little telltale jerk which tells me he’s asleep.
I’m so warm. So comfortable. My eyelids close, and I quickly follow him into sleep.
When I wake up in the morning, it’s to find he’s propped his chin in the palm of his hand. He’s looking down at me.
I look into those eyes, blue like the deep end of the ocean. “Hi.”
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