Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Luke
I woke to pale winter light filtering through the bedroom windows and the unfamiliar weight of another person in my bed. The room was overwhelmingly warm, which meant the power must have come back on while we slept.
Holly was curled against my side, one long leg thrown over my shorter one, her hand resting on my chest. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.
For a moment, I just watched her—the way her lashes fanned out against her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, and the mess of her hair spread across my pillow.
She looked softer in sleep, less burdened by the weight of everything she carried, and I felt that same surge of protectiveness I’d experienced last night mixed with something deeper.
Love.
I loved her.
The thought should have been pure joy. Instead, it sat alongside the weight of what I hadn’t told her.
I’d meant to tell her last night. Had planned to bring it up during the hours we’d spent talking, learning each other’s histories, sharing stories. But every time I opened my mouth to tell her I ran our profiles through my algorithm, the words died in my throat.
And now I’d slept with her. Had tied her to my bed and made her scream. Had confessed I loved being inside her, had licked my own cum out of her in a display of intimacy I’d never imagined with another person.
But I couldn’t tell her about a fucking algorithm.
Coward.
The guilt twisted in my gut, sharp and unforgiving. This was exactly the kind of thing that would make her run. Make her question everything we’d done. Everything I’d said.
Make her wonder if any of it had been real.
You have to tell her.
The thought made my chest feel tight and my hands clammy. What if she left? What if she looked at me with disgust or betrayal or—worse—pity? What if this perfect thing we’d built over the past week shattered because I’d been too much of a coward to be honest from the start?
Holly shifted in her sleep, making a small, contented sound, and burrowed closer against me. Her hand flexed on my chest, her fingers curling into my skin.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of my soap from the shower we’d taken around two o’clock in the morning, mixed with something that was uniquely her.
You’ll tell her today, I promised myself. Before this goes any further. She deserves to know.
Even if it meant losing her.
Holly stirred twenty minutes later with a jaw-popping yawn. The drowsy smile that followed sent my pulse racing.
“Morning,” she rasped, her voice still thick with sleep.
“Good morning.”
She stretched against me, her body arching in a languid curve that drew my gaze before she relaxed back into my arms. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.”
“Mmm. I never sleep this late.” She tilted her head to look down at me, her eyes soft. “You wore me out.”
Despite my panic, I felt my lips quirk up. “You’re the one who demanded a third round.”
“And you’re the one who delivered.” She grinned, then winced slightly. “Though I’m definitely going to feel that for a few days.”
Concern immediately overrode everything else. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I should have been more careful.”
The third time had been … intense. I’d confessed another fantasy—this one about wanting to restrain her, to have her completely at my mercy—and Holly had not only agreed, but encouraged it.
I’d tied her wrists and ankles to my bedposts with a few of my ties, and then I’d proceeded to make her come four times while she could do nothing but take what I gave her.
The sounds she’d made. The way she’d pulled against the restraints. The desperation in her voice when she’d begged me for more, then begged me to stop, then begged me for more again.
I’d run her a bath afterward, guilt already creeping in about how hard I’d pushed her. Then I spent almost an hour massaging every inch of her body, working out the tension in her shoulders and wrists, making sure she was okay.
She’d fallen asleep in my arms smelling like my lavender bath oil, thoroughly used and completely satisfied.
But now, I couldn’t help but worry that I’d been too rough, too demanding, too much like the kind of man who prioritized his own pleasure over her comfort.
“Luke.“ She pressed a finger to my lips. “I’m fine. Better than fine. Just pleasantly sore. In a good way.”
“There’s a good way to be sore?”
“There is when it’s from the best sex of your life.“ She kissed my chest, right over my heart. “Stop worrying.”
But I couldn’t stop worrying.
Because in a few hours—maybe less—I was going to tell her the truth, and there was a very real chance she’d never look at me like this again.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, needing to do something with my hands, with my nervous energy. “I could make breakfast.”
“You cook?“
“I’m a 36-year-old man who lives alone. Yes, I cook.”
She laughed. “Then yes, I’m starving. But first—” She sat up, the sheet falling away to reveal her bare chest, and I momentarily forgot how to form words. “Do you have a shirt I could borrow? All my clothes are still downstairs.”
I looked at all five-foot-ten of her then down at myself, then back at her, raising an eyebrow.
She followed my gaze and laughed.
“I’m fun-sized,” I said dryly. “But I do have a robe that should work. Multiple robes, in fact, because I apparently can’t stop buying them.”
“A robe works.” She grinned.
I crossed to my closet and pulled out a charcoal gray cashmere robe that was soft and luxurious. “Here. This should work.”
She slipped out of bed unselfconsciously and pulled the robe on. It hit her mid-thigh, the sleeves only slightly too short. She struck a pose. “How do I look?”
“You always look beautiful,” I said, hearing the resignation in my voice, already mourning what I was about to lose.
Her smile faltered slightly. “Are you okay? You seem … a bit off.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
She studied me for a moment longer, then nodded, but I could tell from her expression she didn’t quite believe me. “Okay. Well, let’s get some food in you. That’ll help.”
“You sound like Rosa,” I said, leading the way downstairs.
“She’s a smart woman.”
I’d made breakfast in this space hundreds of times since moving in, always alone, always in silence except for the sounds of my own movement and whatever podcast I had playing in the background.
But now Holly was perched on one of the bar stools at the island, her legs swinging slightly, and humming something under her breath while she scrolled through her phone.
It felt domestic. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the simple act of existing in the same space as another person, doing mundane things together.
I wanted this with her. Wanted it so badly it physically hurt.
Which made what was coming even more terrifying.
Holly looked up from her phone. “The power’s still out in parts of town, including mine. According to the mayor’s office, it probably won’t be fully restored until tomorrow morning.” She made a face. “Which means I’m going back to my icebox of a house unless …”
She trailed off, looking at me hopefully.
“Unless?” I prompted, though I knew exactly what she was asking. I just wanted to hear her say, out loud, that she wanted to stay.
“Unless you’d let me stay another night? I know this is moving really fast, but I promise I’m not trying to move in or anything.”
“You can stay as long as you need to,” I said immediately.
Holly smiled at me, then her expression shifted slightly. “Though I should probably go pick up some more clothes. And my toothbrush. I borrowed yours, which I realize was maybe presumptuous.”
“It wasn’t.” My mouth had been on every part of her body. “And I can drive you to get your things after breakfast.”
“After breakfast,” she agreed, then watched as I cracked eggs into a bowl. “So what are we making?”
“Omelets. I’m good at omelets. Well, I’m consistent at omelets. Whether that makes them good is subjective.”
She laughed. “I’m sure they’ll be great.”
I worked with focused precision—heating the pan to exactly the right temperature, whisking the eggs until they were perfectly smooth, and adding a touch of butter at just the right moment to produce a soft, creamy omelet that rolled onto itself.
I plated it with a sprinkle of fresh chives then slid it in front of her.
Holly cut into it with her fork, and the moment she took the first bite, her eyes fluttered closed.
“Oh my God,” she moaned, the sound low and throaty. “Luke, this is …” She shoved another bite into her mouth and made another sound that went straight to my cock despite the anxiety churning in my gut. “This is incredible. Where have you been hiding this skill?”
“It’s just eggs.” I turned back to the stove to start my own omelet, cracking two more eggs into the bowl.
“This is not ‘just eggs.’ This is a perfect French omelet. Consider yourself warned: I’m never making my own breakfast again.”
Any other time, her enthusiasm—the implication that there’d be more mornings I got a chance to feed her—would have made me the happiest asshole on the planet. But today, knowing what I was about to tell her, it just made the guilt dig deeper.
I whisked the eggs mechanically, my movements automatic while my mind spiraled.
“Luke?”
I looked up to find Holly watching me with concern.
“You’re doing it again,” she said softly. “That thing where you look like you’re trying to solve a complicated equation in your head.”
“Sorry. I just—” I set down the bowl and whisk, abandoning my own breakfast. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Wariness crept into her expression. “That … sounds ominous.”
“It’s not—” I stopped, and reconsidered my words. “Actually, it might be. I don’t know. You might … you might be angry. Or upset. Or—”
“Luke.“ She slid off the bar stool and came around the island to stand in front of me. “You’re kind of freaking me out here. Just tell me, whatever it is.”