Chapter 10
Josephine
I wake with a start, heart racing and too hot, but not completely unaware of where I am.
At the mansion. In my room. Still in my own bed.
I am here. This is now.
I’m safe.
Exhaling a long, slow breath, I will my heart rate to slow so I can drift back to sleep. I feel surprisingly rested, probably thanks to the lack of beeping monitors and nurses coming in and out. My gut tells me it’s nowhere near morning, but I’ve slept longer and more soundly than I have in days.
Coming back here had the intended effect. This room… this place… it all feels so right, even though it started so wrong.
The stupid-comfortable bed doesn’t hurt.
Nor does the heavy arm wrapped around my waist and holding me close like my personal weighted blanket.
An arm, I’m now realizing, that does not belong to Hunter.
Ironically, I don’t panic. I do, however, blink a few times, until my eyes adjust to the dark and her side of the bed comes into focus.
Sure enough, she isn’t there. A quick peek at the floor confirms that Greedy is gone, too.
Maybe it’s closer to daylight than I thought.
The blackout curtains in this room are exceptional.
I snuggle into the body behind me, assuming the little spoon position so whichever of my guys has joined me knows I’m awake. Maybe Locke decided he wanted that round two after all.
As I cuddle closer, I’m enveloped in a masculine scent tinged with a hint of savory sweet. In my sleepy haze, it takes a few extra seconds to identify the combination, but once the musk and warm vanilla register in my olfactory senses, I go stiff.
The scent is delicious, but over the weeks, it’s one I’ve come to associate with anger and resentment. Which means the last person I ever expected to find in my bed is in my bed.
“Kendrick!” I hiss. A million questions race through my mind, but the only gobbledygook my groggy, confused mind can string together is “what the fuck?”
I try to roll over, but his grip is too tight. His massive arm is pinning me down, the deadweight anchoring me to the mattress.
“Kendrick,” I growl, louder this time, bucking against him. The big guy is out cold.
I wiggle my hips and arch back to try to free myself from his grip. My heart leaps into my throat on contact, and I fly forward the instant I feel the not-exactly-soft length between his legs.
My cheeks heat, which pisses me off more. I’m not the one sneaking into someone else’s bed in the middle of the night, so why should I be embarrassed?
“Wake up,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Sleep,” he mutters, deep and growly, but also a little whiny.
Sleep, I will not.
Not until the man who hates my guts explains why he’s in my bed.
I have a boyfriend. Two, in fact!
Locke’s teasing remark about Kendrick comes crashing back into my consciousness like a freight train.
But no. That’s not what this is. It can’t be.
Kendrick hates me. Hated me, I suppose.
For the sake of the rest of the guys, we’ve settled into a mutual tolerance. A tolerance that involves a wide berth and the occasional civil exchange. A tolerance that does not involve spooning.
“Kendrick. What are you doing?”
He inches closer and hitches one leg over mine, inadvertently—I think?—pressing his hardness against my ass.
Dumbstruck, I freeze in place. My mind can’t form words or signal my body to take self-preserving measures when he’s this close. Or when he smells so good.
“Snuggling you,” he yawns. Casually. As if it’s a regular thing for us.
“Why?” I demand, still trapped in his warm, comforting hold.
Another yawn. Then I swear I feel a featherlight touch brush along my side and bare hip where my shirt has risen up.
“You were whimpering.”
“I was not,” I huff. As if I’d know what I was doing in my sleep.
This time, he chuckles. “You were. It wasn’t one little whine, either. You were going on for a while. As soon as I got into bed, you stopped. I’m here. I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.”
I fight back a yawn, determined to do the opposite of what he says. “Where’s Hunter?”
He grunts, then silence ensues.
“Where’s Greedy?” I press.
“Don’t fucking care,” he murmurs, running his fingertips more deliberately over my hip and pressing into the soft skin of my belly, anchoring me in place.
“Kendrick…” I warn.
“Jojo…” he mocks.
“Jojo? Really?”
So few people call me Jojo anymore. It’s a nickname that makes me feel both nostalgic and like I’m wearing a turtleneck that’s two sizes too small.
“It’s what my sisters call you,” he reminds me softly. “What your uncle calls you, too. I like it.”
A lump of emotion clogs my throat. There’s no way this man is willingly lying in my bed, soothing me, and declaring that he likes the new nickname he’s using.
Uncomfortable with it all, I crane my neck, putting a little space between us and peeking over my shoulder. His eyes are closed. He looks relaxed. Peaceful, even. It’s the softest expression I’ve ever seen on him.
“Where I’m from, a jojo is a fried potato wedge.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up, which might as well be a full-blown smile for Kendrick Taylor.
Damn, his lips are even more appealing than I realized.
He’s never let me get this close to him before.
I’ve never noticed the length and volume of his dark eyelashes.
Or the way the stubble along his jaw makes it appear even more chiseled and makes his neck seem even broader.
He cracks one eye open, and I quickly look away, praying he didn’t catch me ogling him.
“Would you rather I call you potato?” he asks with a playful squeeze of my hip.
The squeeze tickles. Or maybe it tingles. I can’t make sense of his hands on me, the feelings he’s inspiring, or the depraved place my mind wants to go as my body relaxes into his hold without my permission.
His hands… ugh. His hands.
Except I can’t do this. I’m not thinking clearly. This moment of sweetness doesn’t cancel out all the anger and accusations he’s lobbed at me over the last several weeks.
I try to squirm away, only to have him grip me tighter.
“Nope. Sleep.”
As if he’s calling a play or commanding a dog.
“I need some space, Kendrick,” I grit out.
“You need some sleep, Jojo.”
Frustrated, I try to squirm away. Try being the operative word.
“Kendrick,” I growl. “I can’t sleep with you crushing me. Do you even know how big you are?”
Shit. The moment the words leave my mouth, heat creeps up my neck and settles in my cheeks.
He doesn’t take the bait—small mercy, I guess. But he doesn’t let me go, either.
“Just try to go back to sleep,” he implores.
“I’m not going to be able to sleep with you in here,” I argue.
“You were sleeping just fine right here beside me for the last two hours, Mama.”
I was?
Heart thumping in my chest, all I can do is blink. No counterargument comes to mind, no matter how badly I want to tell him he’s wrong.
“Jade used to get night terrors. She still does occasionally. Snuggling always helped. After my Ma passed… it helps. Let me help you.”
His fingertips drum against my skin, the warmth and rhythm of the contact lulling me into a trance.
“Okay?” he asks.
Though I’m not used to being taken care of, least of all by someone I could have sworn viewed me as the bane of his existence, I nod in acquiescence.
“Your mom died?” I can’t help but ask.
The silence that ensues probably means I’ve pushed too far. Leave it to me to stir up his grief when he’s sharing in an effort to comfort me. But if he insists on tearing down my walls, I’m at least going to try to scale a few of his.
“She passed away when I was thirteen. Right about the time Decker lost his mom.”
My heart clenches in agony for their individual and shared losses.
“How did she die?” I whisper.
Kendrick is silent for so long I assume he’s not going to answer. So I settle in, resigned to his proximity.
Working in hospice for a few years dulled my discernment around grief. I forget that people tend to shy away from the nuances of death and dying until I’ve already made them uncomfortable.
But then he spreads the massive hand out so wide along my hip that it covers half my stomach. He lets it rest there, holding me like he needs the support almost as much as I need the balm.
“Kidney failure,” he grits out. Clearing his throat, he uses that splayed palm to pull me just a little closer. “She had lupus. Passed it on to me. Emilia, too. Jade hasn’t shown enough symptoms to qualify for a diagnosis yet, but…”
Instinctively, I reach for his hand. I trace his fingers with mine, from knuckle to knuckle, wrist to tip.
On the third pass, he catches me, interlacing our fingers and resting our joined hands against my skin.
Tension rises between us. Not a frenetic crackle, but a gradual simmer. Measured and steady. Deep and pure.
It’s a slow build. A tightness that crescendos, then keeps climbing higher.
He’s not touching me anywhere other than where our hands rest on my hip.
And yet…
A warmth is blossoming inside me.
It’s delicious. And powerful. I subtly shift back, seeking the shelter of his arms, the comfort and warmth I crave.
Five minutes ago, I wanted him out.
Now I’m trying to steady my breathing and quell the clench of my thighs as every part of my essence screams at me to let him in.
“Kendrick,” I practically plead. “What are we doing?”
His breath hitches on the inhale, and he shifts closer to my back and brings his face to the crook of my neck.
Placing a featherlight kiss there, he exhales, sending a bolt of desire coursing down my spine.
“I thought you were smart, Ohio,” he says, his lips at my ear now. “Didn’t you win the Crusade Scholarship?”
Is he… flirting with me?
“Kendrick. I’m serious. What are we doing?”
My voice is breathy. My chest feels tight and full of helium at the same time. The tension continues to coil at a steady pace, like it might never stop. What happens to a spring that’s twisted in perpetuity?