Page 52 of Not Safe for Work

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” he asks, giving me a crooked smile that I mentally catalog into the list of Rafe’s smiles I’m currently building. The half smile. The full smile. The snarky smile. The genuine one that lights up his face. I need to take pictures. “Might help calm those nerves.”

I shake my head. My pills aren’t working, and my temples are still pounding. “No, I don’t think that will help tonight. But seriously, if you want to go, I’ll be fine. I have Gabrielle and Lan.” I turn to look at them, but at some point, they abandoned their blanket island and are now across the room chatting with another group of people. “Well, they’ll be back.”

Rafe smiles again—this is his baseline smile—though there is absolutely nothing ordinary about it. “I’m good. I’d rather stay here, if that’s okay?”

Once again, I search for some alternative motive or meaning, but it isn’t there unless Rafe is a really good actor.

“Okay. This is kind of freaking me out.”

I’m not sure if I’m talking about the storm.

With that settled, we sit back, our arms and shoulders pressed together, and our fingers still twined. Now it truly registers: Rafe is holding my hand. I casually implode.

As the night wears on, the ballroom lights flicker, and I swallow the lump in my throat. At another loud crash, they go dark. An arm comes around my shoulders, and I move closer to Rafe, torn between fear and… something else.

I think about what I confessed to him last night—that I was looking for someone who made me feel safe. Why did I never realize that until now?

A mouth ghosts against my ear. “The generator probably was hit by lightning. A hotel this size will have a backup. Might just take a minute for it to fire.”

His breath warms the exposed skin on my throat as he pulls me a little closer, still whispering assurances.

Dim lights flare in the ballroom, casting everyone in an orangey glow. Hotel staff pass through the crowd, handing out more food and water, reminding us that everything will be fine. As the hours wear on, a hush falls over the room as people doze off.

My head is pounding. I grunt as I dig my fingers into the base of my skull, trying to relieve the pressure.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks.

“It’s my head. I get headaches. It’s kind of my thing.”

“Do you want me to…” He trails off as his warm hand rests on top of mine where I’m massaging my nape. I look up at him, noting the crescents of amber light reflecting in his eyes.

“Sure,” I say, my voice soft. “That would be nice. Along the outside of my spine.”

I show him the spot, and his strong fingers dig into the tendons. A shiver spreads like tree roots over my skin. He kneads the muscle for a minute as I tip my head back.

“Sit here,” he says, spreading his legs and patting the ground. The look on his face is unreadable, his jaw tight. I lift myself up and settle between his thighs, taking care to leave a small space between my butt and his… Not thinking about that.

His hands find my neck again, and he digs his thumbs into the tense meat of my traps and shoulders. My eyes roll to the back of my head because he’s a goddamn magician.

A moan escapes my lips as he finds a spot that releases ninety-nine percent of my tension. He works away as I make encouraging sounds of appreciation. I’m so caught up that I don’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.

Again, I feel the brush of his breath against my ear.

“Are those your sex noises, Tris?” he teases, and I’m sure he’s messing with me. He’s trying to take my mind off the storm and my pain, but two can play this game.

“No way. I’m much louder during sex.” His fingers seem to miss a beat as his breath stutters like a needle skipping across a record. He clears his throat and resumes the massage, saying nothing. I think I might have actually stunned Rafe Gallagher into silence.

“You’re really good at this,” I say after a few more minutes. He’s abandoned my neck and is working his way down my back, and I don’t mind this one bit.

“Not too rough?”

I give my head a tiny shake. “I like it hard.”

I realize what he’s just said and what I’ve just said. Why does everything sound dirty right now? But I’ve hopped on this train and want to keep blowing the whistle. Crap. Even my internal thoughts are rife with filthy euphemisms.

“I didn’t expect you to be so good with your hands,” I groan as he presses his thumbs into the ridge on either side of my spine with his fingers braced against my rib cage. It’s exquisite.

But I’m also very aware that the tips of his fingers are so close to brushing the sides of my breasts, and I’m grateful it’s too dark for anyone to witness my expression. We’ve crept over the line I’d so carefully drawn between us.