Page 178 of Duty and Desire
“Wanna fuck?” I offered.
“Lottie, you don’t have to fuck me every time I have a bad dream.”
He sounded short and impatient, something I’d never heard from Mo.
“You’ve never had a bad dream,” I pointed out. “And besides, in case you missed it, I wouldn’t mind.”
He lifted a long arm so he could rub his face with his hand.
I bent my neck and put my mouth to his skin.
“Really, babe, love you, but I don’t want to associate your mouth on me after dreams like that,” he announced.
But I arrested.
Really, babe, love you.
Love you.
He loved me.
Loved me.
His other hand came to the small of my back and drifted up until his fingers were in my hair.
“Go back to sleep. I’m gonna go to the gym,” he muttered.
“Okay,” I whispered, though no way in hell I was going to be able to go back to sleep.
He pulled me further up his chest, gave me a closed-mouth kiss and rolled me to the bed.
He threw back the covers and got out but tossed them over me and pulled them high up my shoulder before he walked to the bathroom.
He didn’t turn on the light until the door was mostly closed.
Mo was a man who didn’t turn the light on until the door was mostly closed when the room he left was dark and his woman was in bed in that room.
He was a man who pulled the covers up high to my shoulder.
Mo was a man who loved me.
Loved me.
I didn’t feign sleep and Mo knew I didn’t after he left the bathroom, went to the closet, put on workout clothes and came right to the bed to smooth my hair back before touching his lips to my temple.
“We’ll go out and get breakfast when I come back,” he murmured and gave my hair a soft tug. “Try to get some more sleep.”
And then he was gone.
I lay in bed, unable to do what he asked (get more sleep), making plans of reading websites and finding books and bucking up so next time this happened, I’d have some tools to deal with it that could help Mo.
I was feeling this was a decent plan, but not feeling much better (except about the part that he loved me,loved me, and said it), when I heard noises coming from the kitchen.
You couldn’t hear much in Mo’s place, even if Mo and Mag’s rooms were both right off the open-plan living space, just on opposite ends of the condo.
Though if it was early, silent, you were jazzed and not entirely in a good way and had already made your plan about how you were going to help your boyfriend with his PTSD so your mind wasn’t jammed up, you could hear.
I got up, dashed to the walk-in, tore off my nightie, threw on some sleep shorts, a bralette and a cami, darted to the bathroom to take care of business, wash my hands, slap water on my face and brush my teeth.
