Page 218 of Tell Me Something True

Chapter 44

Reed didn’t want to wake up.

And it wasn’t because his entire body hurt or that, when he did, he’d have to remember last night or face the shitshow that was his life.

It was because he’d have to leave Verity’s bed.

And with her curled up against him, her back to his front, his arm around her waist, he was in no hurry to do that.

Not when in this fuzzy, dreamlike space between sleep and awake everything was different.

Anything was possible.

Even him touching Verity Jennings.

He wasn’t just touching her. He was fucking spooning her, trapping her between him and the wall, his face pressed against the silky, fragrant strands of her hair. Her head rested on his right bicep, his left arm was wrapped around her waist, both their hands under her shirt—her fingers wrapped around his wrist; his palm pressed against the soft, warm skin of her belly.

His hard cock was nestled against the top curve of her ass.

He’d tried to keep his distance. He didn’t touch a girl unless she gave full consent.

Full, verbal, completely conscious, and one hundred percent sober consent.

He’d stuck by that for hours. Inching away when she scooted closer to him in her sleep until he was left with approximately six inches of space on her mattress.

Gently removing her hand when she touched him. His arm. His back. And one time that about had him shooting out of bed, the top of his thigh.

Verity was a snuggler. Seeking him out time and time again, burrowing against him with little sighs of contentment. Wrapping around him like he was her own personal security blanket.

He’d laid awake half the night listening to her soft breathing, aware of every one of her movements, big or small. Aware that even when she wasn’t physically touching him, she was right there next to him, the only barriers between him and her soft, curvy body, a thin quilt and his own fading willpower.

It got worse as the night wore on and that willpower disappeared completely. He couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d stood between his legs in those snug shorts, her smooth, bare thighs brushing against his jeans. How the wide, loose collar of her sweatshirt had slid down her shoulder, revealing the white strap of her tank top underneath it. How her hair had looked after she’d taken out her hairband, loose and wavy and wild.

How gentle she’d been when she’d wiped the blood from his face and knuckles. How warm her fingers were as she’d smoothed antibiotic over the cut on his eyebrow. How her hands had trembled when she’d lifted his shirt.

She’d snuck him into her house, cleaned him up, and let him sleep in her bed.

She’d taken care of him.

Then, she’d cried herself to sleep.

It had torn him apart, knowing she was crying for him.

Because of him.

He’d laid there like a goddamn coward, each one of her soft sniffles twisting his gut into knots. Kept his fists clenching the quilt so he didn’t reach for her. His back teeth clamped together so he didn’t remind her he wasn’t worth her tears.

Or beg her to stop.

Eventually, he’d fallen asleep.

And woke up to discover that, not only had both dogs joined them—Bella at his back, Titus at the foot of the bed—but that he’d found his way under that quilt barrier, and at some point during the night, Verity had taken her sweatshirt off.

This time, he was the one snuggling up to her.

He’d already broken so many of the rules he’d made when it came to her.

He’d sought her out.

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