14. Bodhi
14
BODHI
I need you to stay.
I’d said those words, but even as my eyes blink open a few hours later, I still can’t believe I managed them. Those gorgeous brown eyes had met mine, her movements sure as she pulled my bag from my shoulder and kicked off her shoes.
She’d guided me to the bed and wrapped her arms around me without a word. I’d never done this.
Not with Mason.
No one.
He’d seen me with migraines and he’d taken care of me, but I’d never craved the warmth of another person before—never wanted the company or even the acknowledgement.
Never wanted to be a burden.
I’d stayed silent for so long but with her…I just can’t.
I can’t explain it and right now I don’t want to. I don’t want to think about why I feel better having her pressed up against my side, half of her body draped over mine.
I just want to be.
“How are you feeling?” she whispers, stretching and rubbing everywhere we touch.
It’s divine, her body lithe and utter perfection.
“Better,” I tell her honestly, not wanting to give voice that she’d made all the difference, that I can’t remember the last time I slept so well—especially with an impending migraine.
“You took your medicine in time?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t always happen like that. Today was,”—I pause, searching for the right word—“unexpected.”
“You can say that again,” Ella agrees, snuggling herself against me.
“You didn’t ask what happened in the truck,” I murmur into the darkness as her fingertips draw unknown patterns over my chest, the ministrations making me brave.
“It’s not my business,” she says, her fingers halting before she adds, “unless you want it to be.”
Did I?
Would I have brought it up if I didn’t?
The warmth of her body draped over mine is hypnotizing, lulling me into a sense of safety I haven’t felt in so damn long.
Maybe ever.
“My parents died in a car accident—icy roads in New Hampshire.” I swallow hard. “I was the only survivor.”
Her body tightens around mine. “How old were you?”
“Three.”
“And then what happened?”
“I went into the system. Got bounced around a lot.” Somehow it’s easier to relive it in the dark. “Had a few good families but most of them weren’t. Mason got placed in the same home as me when he was seven.”
“I like him,” she says, leaning her head on her hand to look at me. “He’s always a goofball when he comes into the Poppy Seed.”
“He’s the best.”
“Did you remember the accident before today?”
“Not like that. I’ve read the reports but I was young.” I let out a huff as I drag a hand over my face. “It felt like I was there again, the car losing control and my mother screaming and the sound of the impact.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sadness fills her voice as she presses the softest kiss to the underside of my jaw.
“It was a long time ago.”
“You scared the shit out of me.” There’s a tremor of fear in her voice as shame floods my veins. A burden. I’d held her and kissed her and fuck , I didn’t deserve any of it. She mistakes my silence as self-consciousness as she continues. “In the truck. You didn’t hear me, and I was so scared I didn’t know what to do.”
“I’m sorry,” I manage, squeezing my eyes closed, my body stiffening and my hand dropping to the mattress.
Burden.
And it’s not just that. If she only knew…
And here I’d been relishing the way she’d calmed me, held me, comforted me in a way I’d never let anyone before.
I’m such an idiot.
“You know damn well you don’t need to be sorry,” she says, swinging her leg all the way over mine before pulling herself up to straddle me. Hands braced on my chest, she glares at me, the darkness unable to hide the disapproval on her face.
Why does she have to feel so good?
“It’s—”
“Don’t.” Her vehemence gets my attention. “Don’t shut me out. I don’t deserve it and neither do you.”
“Ella.”
“I was scared for you, not of you.”
This gives me pause—the weight of her on my lap doing nothing to help connect to braincells in my head.
“I never want you to be scared of me.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“Bodhi?” I love the way she says my name, the way it rolls off her tongue like a physical caress that I feel absolutely everywhere.
“What?”
“What do you want?”
You.
God, what would it be like to give in to her?
She hasn’t moved, and no doubt she can feel how hard I am.
Fuck it.
I slide my palms up her thighs, exhaling slowly until I reach the apex. “I want to kiss you again.”
“And then what?” she asks, leaning forward and stopping when she’s only inches from my mouth.
“I haven’t gotten that far,” I admit. And it’s the truth. The things I’m feeling are complicated, but I just know I want more.
“I probably shouldn’t be tryin’ to jump you after everything that happened today.” She frowns and I roll my lips inward to hide my smile because this is easily the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
“I like you right where you are.”
“It’s the only way I can get your attention, it seems.”
“It’s definitely persuasive,” I agree, my palms skating up her sides, my thumbs barely brushing the underside of her breasts before retracing the same path back to her hips.
“Bodhi?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you gonna kiss me?”
“So impatient.”
“I’m trying to let you be a gentleman,” she huffs, and I grin because she’s cute all hot and bothered and so damn tempting.
Instead of making her wait, I cup her face and lean up to meet her, my lips brushing over hers in a way that’s almost maddeningly sweet. She doesn’t rush me, but I can feel the way her body is practically vibrating with need as she fits herself against me.
Her soft curves are the perfect match to my hard lines, and it damn near feels like a reprieve having her like this.
A gift.
But those feelings turn from a simmer into something more akin to an inferno when she rocks her hips, her pussy grinding against my cock through our clothes. Fuck, it feels good.
She whimpers, and I hold her tighter against me, rolling us until she’s pinned between me and the mattress.
“Perfectly executed,” she manages as I kiss the spot behind her ear, one arm braced on the bed and the other trailing up and down her stomach.
“Am I gonna get the play-by-play?” I tease, the concept completely foreign to me, except apparently with her.
Peeking one eye open, she purses her lips. “I was just trying to compliment you. It’s like saying give my regards to the chef when the meal’s been good.”
Pushing up to look at her, I open my mouth and close it, my brows furrowing before I can find the words. “You’ve done that? Actually given your regards to the chef?”
She lifts one shoulder the best she can lying down, and even though it’s dark, I swear she blushes. “No, but I think it seemed like the appropriate analogy.”
This line of conversation should probably be a mood killer—my performance in line with the regards of an imaginary chef—but it feels like a challenge.
And I like it.
“Well, let’s see how I measure up then, hmm?” I ask, my fingertips skating along the exposed skin between the top of her leggings and the bottom of her shirt.
“Please.”