Page 61 of Afterglow

It was the first piece of furniture I bought after Sarah died, and to see Leanne’s hands moving across the planes of wood makes my heart beat erratically in my chest. She’s the only woman who’s been in this room, let alone touched my bed. It’s not that I’ve been a monk these past six years, but I’ve never brought anyone here.

Until now.

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says, continuing to run her fingers across the headboard, oblivious to the fact she’s got one knee on my bed, right by my pillow. A fact that’s definitely bringing to mind something else that’s beautiful and would look lovely splayed across this very bed.

As if my imagination is pulling my fantasy into reality, she reaches along the line of epoxy with her delicate fingers and the foot she had planted on the floor slips, sending her toppling into the pillows with a whooshed exhale.

I clear my throat, stepping closer and struggling to hold back my laughter and my desire to touch her, knowing I can’t.

Friends, we’re friends.

She rolls onto her back and out of the pillows. The flush from her cheeks spreads down her chest, which rises with rapid breaths. I take one more step, which puts me at the edge of the bed, between her feet. It’s a position I’ve been in once before with her, and it’s one I’ve dreamt of ever since.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her gaze snagging on the intensity of mine. “I made a mess of your bed.”

Fuuuuuck. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut, because those words on her lips might be my undoing.

Her intake of breath, shallow and short, tells me she just realized what she said. “I didn’t mean… I just…”

My eyes snap open and I see the desire in hers, clear as day, like she’s remembering every touch, every sound, every movement of our night together like I am. Her pupils dilate and her mouth parts on a gasp when I let my hand circle her ankle. It’s not an overtly sexual touch, especially over the tall sock that peeks out from under her jeans, but it’s possessive as fuck and she knows it.

“Bryce.” My name is breathy on her lips and it makes my cock twitch in my pants. I want to hear her say my name like that when I’m inside her, and then I want to hear her scream it when she comes.

It’s like a different kind of switch was flipped when we walked in here and the chemistry between us that we’ve been denying—ignoring—rearranged with our close proximity to a bed.

“Yeah, blondie?” I husk, and she shivers like my voice alone was a rough touch against her skin.

She swallows thickly and finally looks away, breaking the connection as quickly as it formed. She pushes up with her arms until she’s sitting upright. I force myself back several steps so I don’t get any more ideas while her head is at the perfect level for—

Nope. Not going to even think about it.

As she scoots to the edge of the bed, I extend my hand and she takes it tentatively. I don’t yank her into my arms and kiss her senseless like I want to. Instead, I help her to her feet and walk backward out of the room with a parting “Take your time snooping.” I nod toward the closet and en suite, then turn to leave her be.

Entering the kitchen, I shake out my hands like it will lessen the lingering heat on my skin.

She wants us to be friends—partners—not a couple. I can respect that. I will respect that.

A few minutes later, she joins me, looking a little flushed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to go crawling all over your bed.”

“Yes you did,” I tease.

She squeezes my forearm with her nails. “Okay, I did. But I didn’t mean for it to get weird.”

“Weird?” I quirk an eyebrow and smirk. I think I’ll keep letting her dig this hole.

“Fuck’s sake, you’re so annoying. You know what I’m talking about, you just won’t admit it,” she grumbles, then waves me away. “Fine, we’ll just pretend it never happened then.”

She turns her attention to the sourdough loaf on the counter, grabbing the knife beside it and cutting off the end without preamble. She takes a bite and I chuckle at the throaty moan that escapes her. “Did you make this?” she asks through her mouthful of bread.

I laugh in earnest now. “Yeah. I think you’ll find I’m a man of many talents.” I point toward another area of the counter where my starter sits. The label on the front says Quick to Rise.

“You did not name your starter that,” she scoffs, and shakes her head.

“Becca did.” I watch her cut another slice. “Hungry?”

“Always,” she says, taking a bite. “I’m always hungry. I won’t keep eating though. I know we have dinner soon with your… in-laws?”

I chuckle. “You can call them Alex and Delia. I know it’s weird that I’m introducing you to my wife’s—” Her minute flinch at the word makes me pause. It’s not a surprising reaction. I’ve never referred to them like that before with her. I usually say they’re my in-laws or Becca’s parents because I don’t want to cause the exact reaction I just did. “To Sarah’s parents,” I continue. “But they’re the closest thing I have to parents as well. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it weren’t for them, and that goes back way before Sarah and I were ever together.”