Page 58 of The Contract

I don’t know what to do now. All I know is that I’m upset. Because Rafael was here. Because Dante’s hurt. Because I don’t know what the hell is going on. And because Rafael said that I need to accept what Dante is and what he can be for me, and I don’t know what the hell that means.

I hesitate in the doorway. Maybe I should grab a change of clothes and sleep in the spare room, the one with all my stuff. I haven’t moved anything to the apartment Dante rented for me. I don’t really want to. When Kenzie took me there one day, I walked around the absurdly nice place feeling kind of … unsettled. Unhappy. Like I wanted to get back to Dante’s place.

With the room’s darkness, I can’t tell if he’s asleep. Then he asks, “Is Rafael gone?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

That soothes me enough that I enter the room. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to sleep somewhere else?”

“No.”

“Okay,” I say, as though I’m not stupidly pleased.

After a quick shower, I return to the bedroom. From the slightly shortened, pained way Dante’s breathing, I can tell he’s still awake. My eyes have adjusted to the dimness, so I can also tell that he’s still wearing his cargo pants.

I go to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. I’m sure it’s because he’s so quiet, almost subdued, but I lay my hand on his chest. In the first instant, I feel weird about it, initiating contact, but then he takes a deep breath and seems to relax under my touch.

I rub a little at the heavy muscle of his chest. His hand comes to rest on my thigh. It’s not sexual. We’re obviously not going to fuck. But there’s an intimacy to the moment that feels … really nice.

The thing is, Idokind of know what Rafael meant about accepting Dante’s limits and hard lines. I don’t know if Rafael knows about the contract, but he clearly knows that what I have with Dante is an arrangement, not a relationship. That’s why he teased Dante by calling me his boyfriend.

Maybe he’s right. If I were smarter, maybe I wouldn’t let this moment with Dante mean anything. Maybe I wouldn’t let myself feel like he wants me here, and not just for sex.

But itdoesfeel that way. And I like that it does.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask.

“I just need to rest for a bit.”

He needs more than that. He needs to actually sleep. I don’t think he often does. He’s almost always gone when I wake up. I don’t think he slept at all last night. I think that’s part of the reason he was so shitty this morning.

I say, “You’d be more comfortable without these pants on.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I …” I don’t finish the question. I want to help him. Fuck, it’s more than that. I want to touch him.

But one of his rules is that I can’t touch his cock. It’s a very strange rule for someone so sexual. Why refuse something that feels so good? I love when he touches my cock. Maybe it’s a dominance thing. Or maybe it’s something else.

He doesn’t respond to my words, so I let my hand slide from his chest down his belly. I shouldn’t be turned on by it. This isn’t about sex. But this is the most I’ve ever touched him—and he allows it.

That is, until I get to his waistband. Then he flinches. A small sound of distress escapes him.

I take my hand away. “You do it,” I say. “I’ll help you pull them off.”

He lets out a shuddering breath. He undoes his pants then lifts his hips so I can tug them down. I’m very careful to touch only his sides.

I toss his pants in the laundry basket and climb into the bed on the other side. By then, he’s breathing better, not freaking out.

The pull the covers up over us both. I try to settle in, but I just lie there. Until his fingers find mine under the covers. It’s the slightest brush of his fingertips, but I respond to it by threading my fingers together with his. He sighs and seems to relax.

None of this would be happening if his head was clear. I’m sure of that. But itishappening, and it’s probably the most dangerous moment we’ve yet shared.

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