And I love it.
When I’m finished, I grab one of the big, fluffy white towels that smell like sunshine and spring rain and wrap it around my body. I moisturize my face and draw a smiling face in the fog on the mirror—oh, he’s going to hate that—and head back to my room. When I reach the hallway, I notice his door is only slightly ajar and the room dark. Apparently, he went back to bed after he washed our dishes.
I slip quietly into the guest room and pull a fresh T-shirt from the drawer. It doesn’t smell as good as the button-down I wore earlier, but it’s probably not acceptable to head back to the bathroom and take it off the floor. But when have I ever been worried about something being socially acceptable?
That’s exactly why I slip out of the room, naked, and retrieve the discarded white shirt Samuel wore today. Quietly, I make my way back to my temporary room, throw my arms in the shirt and secure the buttons. I find my hairbrush on the dresser, remove the hair tie, and try to untangle the mess I call hair. When it’s finally brushed out, I flip off the light and climb into bed.
The first thing I notice is the cold sheets. They smell clean, but they lack any…heat. Any familiarity. I hate it. But I snuggle into one of the pillows, curl up on my side, and try to go to sleep.
It doesn’t work.
Even though the clock reads midnight, I can’t sleep. I toss. I turn. I count sheep. Nothing works. My mind wanders right back to the feel of his arms around me, the way his lips molded to my own, the way his cock moved inside me. My nipples start to tingle and I’m pretty sure I’m getting wet already.
Sighing, I flop onto my back, wishing I was back in his bed. In his arms. Surrounded in his heat as I drift off to sleep.
That sounds a thousand times better than lying here, alone, and wishing for sleep to claim me.
That’s probably why I find myself getting out of bed and padding quietly to the door. I’m noiseless as I slip across the hall, his door barely moving as I enter his personal space. Instantly, I’m wrapped in everything the other room is lacking, and as I climb into his bed, there’s a smile on my face.
I try to move quickly and silently, and I’m grateful Samuel doesn’t seem to notice he has a bedmate. As soon as I relax against the pillow, I feel the weight of the day just drain from my body. I’m exhausted and finally feel like I can fall asleep.
Just as I close my eyes, I feel his arm swing over my body and pull me toward him. The heat of his chest is pressed against my back, and all I can do is wait. Wait for him to bust me. Wait for him to ask me what I’m doing. Wait for him to boot my ass from his bed.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he relaxes against me, spooning my back with his much larger chest. I can tell he’s still wearing his undershirt and shorts. The hair on his legs tickles my own legs, but I only seem to burrow in farther. My eyelids finally start to droop as sleep finally calls.
Just before I succumb to the darkness, I feel his arm tighten around me and his lips rest on my shoulder. “Good night, Freedom,” he whispers.
I don’t answer. Instead, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips.
Chapter Fifteen
Samuel
As I embalm the lady who owned the bakery in downtown Rockland Falls, my mind keeps flashing to waking with Freedom in my arms for the last three mornings. I’ve learned in a short time she’s not a morning person. She requires an ungodly amount of coffee just to function, and she loves to dance in the kitchen when she thinks no one is watching. Or maybe she knows I’m there, observing, and is doing it just for me.
I’ve also noticed how my house suddenly feels different. Sure, there are splashes of color in the living room I’ve had to adjust to—throw pillows and some potpourri shit that smells like lilacs—but it’s more than that. It’s the panties I find drying on the shower curtain rod, the chipped coffee mug in the sink that I would have long thrown away, and even the tofu and kale in my refrigerator. It’s all part of her, part of her quirk, her passion.
I like it.
A lot.
I’m also completely torn as I flip the switch and the embalmer starts to do its job. I’m even more confused by the crazy pull I feel toward Freedom than ever before. It’s like I’m not really me anymore. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. It’s like I’m a different version of me, and I believe I might like this new version too. Maybe even better than the old me.
I pull off my gloves, toss them in the trash, and wash my hands. Once they’re dry, I dig my cell phone out of my trousers front pocket. It takes me a few seconds to find the name I’m looking for, but when I do, my finger hovers over the call button. Part of me wants to shove my phone back into my pants and move on with my day, with my life. But the other part is like a flashing reminder of how wrong we’ve gotten it.
How wrong I’ve gotten it.
You can’t get married in Las Vegas and expect to live happily ever after for the rest of your life. Not with your sister’s best friend after a night of too much drinking. Not when there’s
