He was ninety-nine percent sure Haven didn’t eat takeout in bed.
He was ninety-nine percent sure Haven wasn’t going to smile at him and say, That was amazing. Let’s do it again.
He had a vivid mental picture of what she’d do when she woke up and found herself twisted in damp sheets, wrapped around his body, salty from sweat that had cooled and dried. She’d pull back and try to smile. She’d reach up and fix her hair into a perfect do, hard and tight, fasten it so it couldn’t escape. Then she’d button herself back into her clothes, as if she were putting armor on. And all the while, she wouldn’t quite look at him, as if by avoiding him she could also avoid having to admit what she was doing, that she was shutting him out and saying goodbye.
He could see it so clearly, it already hurt.
10
IT WAS DARK when Haven woke up, only a little light filtering in from the street, and she didn’t know what time it was or why her body was sore all over, her neck stiff, her cheek sticky. And then everything came back.
Her first impulse was to run.
Right now, she felt as if she had something to give him, but that would change. The meeting—colliding, really, a kind of physical cataclysm—of their bodies was enough for him. For now.
But eventually he would want to dig deeper. He would want the kind of meeting of souls that someone with his depth deserved. He was filled with emotion and passion, and he was able to find a matching passion in other people, with his music, with his teaching.
And she—
She wouldn’t be enough.
But, of course, there was nowhere to run to. He was asleep in her bed.
Her second impulse was to kick him out, but then she looked at him and found she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was sound asleep, his mouth open just a little, breathing slowly, his long lashes motionless on his beautiful face. Effort and the humidity of the room had curled his hair just a little. He looked so peaceful, almost angelic. She didn’t want to wake him. In fact, she didn’t want him to go. She wanted to hold onto him as long as she could, as long as he’d have her. But she knew what would come—eventually he’d see that when he cracked her open, he wouldn’t find the hidden depths he needed, but only more of what she’d already given him.
So she lay back down, her face on his chest, wrapped her arms around him and went back to sleep.
The next time she woke, it was morning, and he was not in bed with her. A moment of panic set in. He had run. He had kicked himself out.
But no, she could hear him moving around the kitchen, and then she could smell coffee and breakfast cooking.
She got up, wrapped herself in a satin robe and went into the kitchen where he was frying eggs wearing only his jeans, slung low on his hips, that fine angled line of hip muscle just visible. He smiled tentatively at her, and she smiled back.
With a quizzical look, as if she hadn’t done what he expected her to do, he crossed the kitchen and embraced her. He was warm and solid and somehow fierce. She rested her cheek against his bare skin, his chest hair rough, the now familiar scent of his skin overwhelming her. Her lips almost twitched with how much they wanted to explore his firm contours.
“I wish I were actually a songwriter,” he said against her hair. “Because I could write a really good song about that sex.”