Page 161 of Wicked Dreams

Caleb moves too fast. Faster than my mind can comprehend.

He stretches himself out on top of me, pinning me to the couch. He catches both of my wrists, yanking them up over my head.

It pulls on my stomach, my abs, and I cry out.

He doesn’t relent, though. This is the Caleb I know—the Caleb I deserve. His face is angry. Hell, furious. He leans down, his hips digging into mine.

“You don’t get to beat yourself up,” he whispers. “You don’t get to be cruel to yourself.”

“I can’t?—”

“I don’t know what you think you can’t fucking do,” he growls.

His face is right over mine. Our legs are tangled together. His hands hold my wrists, but I can barely feel it.

Even when he’s angry, he’s gentle.

I meet his gaze.

“Face it, Margo. You’re a lot stronger than you think.”

I shift my hips.

He smirks. “You trying to proposition me?”

“It would be a good distraction.” I sigh.

“Is that what you want? Just a distraction?”

I ponder that.No, I don’t think I want just a distraction.

The answer must be written on my face, because his expression clears. He releases me and hops up. “What you need is sleep.”

I glance out the window. Sometime between us sitting and now, the sun set. “Is it even eight o’clock yet?”

He scoffs. “Does it matter? You’re hurt. Sleep will help you heal.”

I push myself up and walk toward the bed. There’s a picture on the dresser of Caleb and Eli. It occurs to me that I’ve accepted his living situation far too easily. Questions bubble up—the why and when most urgent.

I face him. “How long have you lived here?”

He pauses.

Him being here full time would explain the sheets covering the furniture at his house. But then… what about his parents?

He touches his throat. “The basement is mine, yes. If and when I ever need it.”

“You took me here when I was drunk.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, baby, but you kind of have a bad reaction to my house.”

I shudder.I do.

“Bed.” He looks pointedly at the mattress.

I climb in and lie down, pulling the blanket up to my chin. It smells like him, the same as the shirt. I almost bring it up again—why he’s living here, why he’s being nice—but I can’t do it.

He crawls in beside me, lying flat on his back. His eyes close.

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