Page 96 of The Wrong Man

I’m not going to do this. This is the first and only time I’m going to have sex with Dante. Because that’s what it was, sex. Definitely not making love. Sex, just sex.

Now, I’m warm and sated and sleepy, and his arms are around me. His chest is pressed against my back, and I feel safe and cherished.

I sigh, and let sleep claim me. I’ll deal with the morning when it comes.

Chapter twenty-seven

Dante

Iwake up with Dylan in my arms.

For a long moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t do anything that might shatter this fragile, impossible thing that is happening right now.

He is curled against my chest, one hand tucked under his chin, the other resting on my stomach. His hair is a mess of strawberry-blond waves, sticking up in every direction, and his lips are slightly parted in sleep. He looks peaceful. Soft. So unbearably beautiful that something aches deep in my chest.

I have never woken up next to someone like this.

There have been encounters, of course. Brief and transactional, with people who didn’t know what I am, and simply wanted my body, my physical form. But those were always conducted in the dark, in anonymous places, with a mutual understanding that neither party would stay until morning. I never wanted them to stay. Never wanted to see their faces in the harsh light of day, never wanted to deal with the awkward aftermath of intimacy with a stranger.

This is different. This is Dylan, warm and alive and pressed against me like he belongs here. Like my arms are the safest place in the world.

The irony of that is not lost on me. I am the furthest thing from safe. I am the monster that parents warn their children about, the nightmare that lurks in the shadows, the man who makes people beg for death in soundproofed rooms.

And yet here he is. Sleeping peacefully in my bed like I am someone worth trusting.

I allow myself one small indulgence. I brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, letting my fingers trail lightly across his skin. He makes a soft sound and burrows closer, his nose pressing against my collarbone.

My heart does something complicated. Something that feels suspiciously like it is breaking and healing all at once.

I could stay here forever. I could lie in this bed with this man in my arms and pretend the outside world does not exist. Pretend I am someone else entirely, someone worthy of the gift he has given me.

But the outside world does exist. And I am exactly who I have always been.

Dylan stirs against me, making a small noise of protest as consciousness begins to claim him. I move backward and watch his face as awareness filters in. The flutter of his eyelashes. The slight furrow between his brows. The way his body tenses for just a fraction of a second before he remembers where he is.

Then his eyes open, and he looks up at me, and the tension melts away into something softer.

My own tension drains away as I see no sign of the fear I was bracing myself for. Dylan O’Shea is no longer terrified of me.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning.”

He blinks a few times, as if trying to determine whether this is real or some particularly vivid dream. Then a flush creeps up his cheeks, and I know he is remembering last night in explicit detail.

“That happened,” he says.

“It did.”

“We really...” He trails off, gesturing vaguely between us.

“Yes.”

The flush deepens. He buries his face against my chest, and I feel his groan vibrate through my skin.

“Oh God. I cannot believe I did that. Any of that. All of that.”

A sound escapes me. Something rusty and unfamiliar that might be a laugh.