Anya
Iwoke up shivering.
We’d said little once we got to his house — mansion. We had just unpacked the car, and he showed me to the spare room.
Fucking spare room.
It wasn’t the dramatic kind that causes panic. The slow, creeping cold that slid under the blankets and settled into my bones.
The guest room was very nice. Almost a little too nice. Thoughtful in a way that made my chest ache. Fresh sheets. A folded towel on the dresser. A glass of water already waiting on the nightstand.
Desmond hadn’t assumed anything. That was the problem. I’d be lying if I didn’t have… notions about how this weekend would go. And almost every single thought I’d followed had ended in sex.
Sex that wouldn’t be happening in separate rooms.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe. The wind pressed against the window. Somewhere, the heat clicked on and off, fighting a losing battle against the storm.
I told myself to be reasonable. To grab another blanket. To put on socks. Heaven knew there was enough of everything stacked on the small ottoman at the end of the bed.
Instead, I sat up.
My heart started pounding the second my feet hit the floor. Ridiculous. I’d faced trauma bays with less hesitation. But this felt… bigger. Scarier. Because it wasn’t about skill or competence or keeping someone alive.
It was about wanting.
I padded down the hallway, every step deliberate. His door was cracked just slightly, a sliver of warm light spilling out. I paused there, fingers curled into the hem of my shirt, suddenly very aware of how small I felt.
I knocked once. Soft. “Desmond?” My voice barely carried.
There was a shift inside. Sheets rustling. Then his voice, low and instantly alert. “Anya?”
The door opened the rest of the way. He stood there, bare-chested, in sleep-rumpled quiet, hair uncombed. Concern snapped into place on his face the second he saw me. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice deep and deliciously thick with sleep.
“I’m cold,” I said. Honest. Simple. My pulse thundered anyway. “I tried to be fine about it, but I’m not.” I tried not to tap my foot as silence surrounded us. “I don’t want to sleep in a damn spare bedroom, Vaughn.”
He looked at me for a long moment, as if he were weighing something important. Then he stepped back. “Come here,” he said, fingers curling around my wrist and tugging me gently into the room.
His room was warm. The bed was already turned down on one side, the other untouched. He lifted the covers without ceremony, as if this were the only solution in the world.
I climbed in beside him, heart in my throat, every nerve lighting up the second the warmth wrapped around me. He waited until I settled, until I’d exhaled for the first time since waking.
This was different. This wasn’t a sexy conference rendezvous, or a stolen moment in an emergency room office. This was me, asking to be near him. This was private and intimate in a way we had avoided until this point.
Only then did he move closer. Not quite touching. Just near enough that I could feel the heat of him, solid and real. His arm hovered for a beat, a question without words.
I answered by shifting closer.
He let out a slow breath and draped his arm around me, hand resting light at my shoulder, like he was anchoring me without crossing an unspoken line.
“Better?” he murmured.
“No,” I said, already sinking. “Not yet.” I shifted again, curling up against his side like a cat in a sunbeam. I allowed my fingers to fold around his waist, and my ear to press against his chest.
“This is better,” I muttered. The storm howled outside. His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear. I didn’t fall asleep right away, but I stopped being cold.