Pawliday Love

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

DANIELLE

I pace my childhood bedroom, unable to sleep.The taste of Derek lingers on my lips, and my skin still burns where his hands explored.Scout watches from his spot on my bed, his eyes following my agitated movements.

"This isn't happening," I mutter, running fingers through my tangled hair.The sound of running water from the bathroom makes my imagination run wild.Derek. Naked. Wet.

Stop it.

I grab my sketchbook from my portfolio case, desperate for distraction.But instead of the mountain landscapes I should be working on, my hand betrays me.Dark, hungry eyes emerge on the page.Strong hands. The curve of Derek's mouth right before he kissed me.

The shower stops. My heart pounds as footsteps pass my door.A soft thud as he closes his bedroom door.The walls feel too thin, the space between us too charged.

My phone buzzes with another email from the gallery.I should answer it. Should work on my show.Should do anything except imagine Derek lying awake too, wanting me as desperately as I want him.

Scout whines softly, and I sink onto the bed beside him."I know, boy. I'm a mess."

The rain drums against the windows, and thunder rolls in the distance.Each flash of lightning illuminates the sketches on my walls of the mountains I chose over the man in the next room.

But did I really choose? Or did I just refuse to give up everything I'd worked for?Derek never asked me to come to New York.Never suggested we try long distance.Just walked away like I meant nothing.

Like the paintings hanging in his apartment mean nothing.

The thought of him buying my work, following my career while I tried so hard to forget him, sends anger coursing through me.What right does he have to keep tabs on me?To still affect me like this?

My body thrums with unresolved tension.The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, the hardness pressing against me through his jeans...

I slip my hand under my sweater, imagining it's his touch.My fingers trace the path his took, and heat pools between my legs.This is a terrible idea. But I'm too wound up to care.

Scout huffs and jumps off the bed, curling up in his bed by the door instead.Smart dog.

I bite my lip to stay quiet as my hand slides lower, remembering how Derek used to touch me.How he knew exactly where to stroke, to press, to make me come undone.My hips rock against my fingers as pleasure builds, and I have to bury my face in my pillow to muffle my moans.

The release, when it comes, is both relief and torture.Because it's not enough. It's not his hands, his mouth, his body moving with mine.

It's not his heart.

Thunder crashes outside, and I curl into myself, tears pricking my eyes.Because the truth is, I never stopped loving him.I just got better at pretending I didn't.

And now he's here, saying everything I've dreamed of hearing for four years.Offering proof of his feelings, his regret, his desire to make things right.

But can I trust it? Trust him?Trust myself not to lose everything I've built trying to recapture what we had?

I don't have answers. Only the ache in my chest, the lingering heat in my blood, and the knowledge that sleep will be impossible with Derek just a wallaway.

Fuck, why am I torturingmyself?One night won't changeanything.One night, just to get the closure both our bodies and heartscrave.One night to scratch theitch.

"Stay boy," I whisper to Scout, who is already halfasleep.Then before I can talk myself out of it, I swallow and decide to cross the hall and finish what we started on thatcouch.But when I open my room door, Derek is already standing there with his hand primed to knock.