My eyes open and I glimpse the picture box. My heart freezes in my chest.
“Holden, no.” I push against his head. “Please. We have to stop. I’m sorry. Stop.”
With a forced, strained exhale, he removes himself from me and pushes away. The sudden cool air hitting my body sobers me even further.
I pull myself into a ball, wrapping my arms around my legs. “I just can’t . . . Tyler—”
Holden sits back on his heels, his chest heaving. “I know.” Then he’s off the bed, his erection straining against his boxers. I can’t help but look, notice the size . . . and a whole new wave of need seizes me. Stop.
He steps into his jeans and yanks them up, then reaches over and grabs a pillow from his bed.
I swallow hard. “Where are you going?”
“To sleep in the truck.”
“What—why?”
His eyes flay me. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m getting any sleep here.”
Guilt stabs my chest. “So this is my fault?”
His hand pauses as he’s buttoning his jeans. Then he walks toward me and kneels, becoming level with me. “I’m not angry. Nothing is your fault.” He places his hands on either side of my face. “I just can’t be in the same room as you and not be with you. I need to calm down.”
His voice is so earnest, and his eyes are so convincing, I nod. “All right.”
He rests his lips against my forehead, brushing a light kiss, before he backs away and steps into his boots. After the door shuts behind him, the silence blankets me in humiliation.
Sleep doesn’t come easy.
Holden
Stretched out on the bench seat of my truck, willing my thoughts on anything other than Sam, I pound the back of my head into the lumpy pillow. It’s pointless. I can still taste her. Still feel her. Her sweet scent followed me into the cab and it’s swimming in the air. Tormenting me.
I haven’t calmed down at all. My dick presses against my jeans painfully, and I push back, adjusting my rock hard erection against my stomach. That was a fun walk across the lobby. Hell.
If I thought jerking off would help, I’d beat the fuck out of it right now. But that won’t satisfy my need for her. If I thought marching up there and taking an ice-cold shower would douse the fire searing beneath my skin, I’d dive head first into the Mississippi. Okay. That’s extreme. Maybe. But a shower’s out of the question.
I can’t be anywhere near her right now.
I fucked up.
And when she said Tyler’s name . . . shit. Did she see him? Right then? When I was going down on her? How messed up is that. It’s so messed up that I just can’t. My guilt meter tipped over somewhere around the time I started dancing with her at the club. I’m taxed out on guilt at the moment.
My self-loathing for trying to be with a mentally unstable girl puts me on the all-time top douchebag list. I just cleared the first spot, I’m sure. But it’s Sam. Fucking Sam. Sometimes I look at her and just see her. The girl I wanted more than anything. And other times . . . like just ten minutes ago . . . I’m reminded why I should’ve never gone on this trip.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought a plane ticket home tomorrow. And maybe that’s for the best. If she’s expecting an apology, I can’t give her one. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I knew exactly what I wanted.
But hell, she sure as shit wanted it, too. I close my eyes, remembering the feel of her as I slid my fingers inside. The warmth, tightness. Her smooth, soft lips . . .
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I loose a guttural roar into my palms.
I am a masochist.
Rolling onto my side, I give up the fight, letting my thoughts drift back to her. Wondering if she’s beating herself up as much as I’m kicking my own ass right now.
A tapping noise pulls me out of sleep. For a second, I think Sam and I must have gotten too tired to drive and pulled over, until last night comes back in a rush of hot and painful memories.
Shit.
The noise grows louder, and I look up. Sam’s on the other side of the driver’s side window. A cup of coffee in her hand.
My savior.
Pulling myself up by the steering wheel, I slide toward the door and roll down the window. She’s freshly showered, her wet hair falling over her shoulders, and a rosy blush tinges her makeup-free cheeks.
“I thought you might need this,” she says, passing the Starbucks cup through the window. “I’m sure sleeping in your truck makes for a crappy morning.”
Now that most of the blood has returned to my head—well, except the bit that’s sporting my morning wood—I can rationalize last night clearly. I don’t want her to punish herself. To think that she did anything wrong.