Page 57 of Never Your Girl

Her eyes widen slightly, a vulnerability I’ve never seen in her, shining back at me. She resettles against me, and my nerves ratchet up with the passing of each silent second that ticks by.

“Holland?” My heartbeat thunders in my ears. “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice quiet. “I’m not sure what to say.”

The disappointment that crashes over me is heavy and unwelcome. I’ve never put myself out there like this or dropped my guard when it comes to women. And now, I wish I hadn’t done it with her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I mutter. “I just wanted you to know.”

The air between us shifts, thickening with something I can’t quite name. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she leans forward and brushes her lips against mine. It’s a featherlight touch that sends a shockwave through my entire body.

Before I can sink into the caress, she pulls back, her cheeks flushing as she lays her head on my chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the rain.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her close as the storm outside rages on.

Another silence falls over us, and after a while, her breathing evens out. My mind drifts with thoughts of her. Holland is the last person I expected to feel this way about. And yet, as I run my fingers absently through her hair, I realize the only other person I’ve ever been this honest with is FragileLikeABomb.

I’m not sure whether to be comforted or disturbed by the thought. Maybe that’s why I feel so drawn to her. Somehow, in ways I can’t explain, Holland makes me feel the same way Fragile does.

Like I’m seen.

Like I’m known.

And that terrifies me.

19

Holland

The first thing that hits me when I wake is the warmth.

The second is the hard, steady rise and fall beneath me, like I’m lying against a solid, living, breathing furnace. My brain is still foggy with sleep, and it takes a moment to play mental catch up and for the details to sharpen. There are strong arms wrapped around me, a hand resting possessively on my hip, and the faint scent of soap and something that is inherently him.

My eyes snap open to find Bridger Sanderson flat on his back, his annoyingly perfect jawline relaxed in sleep while I’m sprawled across his chest.

I should move before he wakes up.

Instead, I remain perfectly still.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve never felt so safe.

Safe in a way I can’t explain.

Safe in a way I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years.

Not since the last time I let my guard down with this guy and got burned for it.

But in the sliver of dawn where the world doesn’t feel so sharp, I let myself indulge in the comfort I’ve found in his arms. My hand slides up his chest, fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath them.

It’s ridiculously soothing.

My fingers drift lower, brushing along the edge of his ribs, and?—

“Enjoying yourself?”

His voice is gravelly, still thick with sleep, and I jerk my hand back, as if burned.

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