Page 40 of The Order of Disorder
My body is crashing, nerves frayed, head spinning.
“You need to rest,” he says quietly, his mouth near the top of my head. “We’ll talk later. I promise.”
The blanket shifts as he lifts it, letting cooler air slip in.
He reaches past me and flicks off the lamp and the room goes dark.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I do feel safe.
It’s quiet. It’s rarely quiet in the clubhouse—it must be late into the morning. But I can’t sleep.
The room is dark. The fan is humming steadily. Wyatt’s breath is slow and even beside me. But my skin is burning up. Sweat beads between my breasts and under my hair. My thighs stick together.
I peel the blanket off. It feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
My dress clings to me, damp and suffocating. I push it up and shove it down, over and over as I try to regulate my body temperature, and finally I just tug it off over my head and toss it to the floor.
I lie there naked letting the drifting air pass over my skin, cooling the beads of sweat, but then the cold hits. Goosebumps ripple over me, making me shiver.
I slide back under the blanket and curl toward Wyatt for warmth. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, but his body feels good, solid and warm beneath the fabric. I nestle in closer, breathing in his scent, hoping it’ll settle the racing in my chest, the nervous twitch creeping up my spine.
He shifts a little, half-asleep, adjusting just enough for me to rest my head on his shoulder, and I exhale and sink into him. His arm settles heavy around my waist.
He feels so nice. So strong. So real.
My Wyatt.
Hard, fierce, strong.
I take his hand and guide it up, slowly. His fingers skim my skin, sending a shiver through me that cuts through the static crawling just beneath the surface. I draw his hand over my breast, letting the heat of it make my skin tighten, goosebumps rising in waves. My nipple hardens under his touch.
He stirs.
His fingers move—light pressure, a gentle squeeze. A sound slips from his throat, low and warm.
And then he freezes.
His hand stops moving. He sucks in a breath, and pulls his hand away.
“Max,” he breathes. He’s lifting his arm, moving away from me. “What are you doing?”
I blink at him, still half-curled into his side, a janky wiredness pulling at my veins.
“Nothing,” I answer coyly, and then I lift my arms, stretching my body out. I want his hands on me. I need his touch to soothe this relentless buzzing inside me.
But he doesn’t reach for me.
“You’re not thinking straight, honey,” he says gently. “Where are your clothes?”
“I’m hot,” I whine, and roll to my side, pressing my body against his and brushing my mouth to the side of his neck. He smells so good. So warm, so soft, so comforting. “Aren’t you?”
He exhales hard and puts a hand on my arm, firm.
“Sweetheart…you’re not yourself.” He sits up. “Come on, let’s get you something to wear. I’ll turn up the fan if you need it.”
I blink and sit up with him.
“I don’t want the fan,” I say. “I want you to touch me. And I want to make you feel good.”
