Chapter Seven
Tia
Knowing Briggs is sleeping on the opposite side of the wall has me wide awake until well after midnight. I try to forget he exists. I count sheep. I meditate. I even count backward from one hundred. Nothing dislodges the reminder that he's in my house, sleeping in my guest room right now.
I'm not even sure why I invited him to stay.
Actually, that isn't true. Maybe I can lie to him, but it's a lot harder to lie to myself.
I invited him because I had fun tonight.
I enjoyed talking to him. I enjoyed planning with him.
I liked the way he looked at me, and the way my entire body lit up whenever he touched me.
I liked letting my guard down for once and just…
trusting myself again. It's been so long since I've done that.
For years, I've blamed myself for being stupid enough to fall into Daniel's trap.
I've told myself if I were just smarter, if I'd just looked a little harder, if I'd just trusted that little voice that whispered that I wasn't ready, then none of it would have happened.
But the truth is, I didn't do anything wrong.
I was eighteen, dating a guy who knew how to be charming and put on a show.
He knew how to slip beneath my defenses, say all the right things, and act like he genuinely cared about me.
He's the one who did something wrong. He's the one who lied, manipulated, and used me in some sick game with his friends.
That isn't on me.
I don't think I've ever let myself believe that before tonight. But sitting across from Briggs, listening to him tell me that Daniel is the one who fucked up? For the first time, I felt the weight I've been carrying just…dissolve.
It felt good. Freeing.
It made me realize something else, too.
What Daniel did isn't on Briggs, either. I can't hold him accountable for something he didn't do. I can't judge him by the actions of an asshole I knew in college, either. That isn't fair to him.
He deserves to be weighed and measured by his own actions, his own morality, and his own deeds. He deserves a chance. The thought scares the hell out of me. I can't lie about that. But…I think not giving him that chance might scare me just as much.
I don't want to wake up next week or next year and wonder whether I let something amazing slip through my fingers because I couldn't or wouldn't trust my own judgment again. I don't want to wake up five years from now and realize that I'm still chained to what happened, unable to move beyond it.
I just want…peace. I want more of what I had tonight.
I want Briggs, dammit.
I flip onto my back with a groan, my body a livewire. I kick the blankets off, trying to cool myself down, but it's no use.
Is he really a virgin?
It's hard to imagine that someone who looks like him, someone his age, someone with his status and his options would just…wait. And yet, I don't think he was lying.
Briggs Ward is a virgin.
And God help me, but there's something attractive about that. It's not that he's untouched or pure or any of that nonsense. I don't care about that. It's that he's confident enough in his own skin, in his own needs, and in his vision for his future to hold steady. Not many people could.
But he does. He has.
I'm living proof that sex and love aren't the same thing. I didn't love Daniel. I liked him a lot. I was eighteen, and sex seemed like the natural progression of a relationship at the time.
Looking back afterward, I realized how wrong I was about that…how much I ignored the little voice saying I wasn't ready yet. But at the time? I thought it was the next logical step, that it's what I had to do to get from point A to point B.
God knows, I'm not the only one. The pressure to have sex is intense in college.
If you aren't doing it, there's something wrong with you.
If you're doing it too much, there's something wrong with you.
It's like there is no right choice, and we all just flounder around, trying to figure it out.
We're not allowed to make the decision that's right for us without someone having an opinion because they would have chosen differently.
But people like Briggs? They know themselves enough to know what's right for them. They trust themselves enough to make the decisions that are right for them. And they listen to that little voice when it speaks.
Yeah, that's attractive. It's attractive as hell.
I wish I'd had that confidence and wisdom at eighteen. At twenty-four, I still don't have it. Not yet. I've avoided dating, afraid to fuck it up again.
A soft sound whispers through the vent separating my room from the guest room, so faint I think maybe I imagined it at first, or maybe that it's just him shifting around in his sleep. And then I hear it again, a little louder this time.
"Tia."
My heart thuds against my breastbone, jolting so strongly it's like an electric shock to my system.
Is he dreaming about me right now?
"Tia. Fuck, just like that," he groans, his voice muffled.
Oh.
Oh, my god.
I bite my lip, trying to stifle a whimper, trying not to breathe so I can hear him better. I don't think he's asleep. He's moving around on the bed, his voice louder now.
"Goddamn, beautiful. That hand feels so perfect on my cock," he groans.
I whimper out loud this time, my back arching from the bed. He isn't asleep. There's no way. He's…
"Work me just like that," he groans. "Touch yourself. Let me see you."
I freeze, my breath escaping in a stuttering rush. And then my hand slips down my body. I know he can't see me. I don't even think he's really talking to me, but I slide my hand into my panties anyway.
"Briggs," I whimper, shocked at how wet I am. At how loud I am. I can't stop myself, though. He's on the other side of the wall, getting himself off while thinking about me. I want him to know that I hear him. I want him to know that I'm touching myself, too.
"That's it, beautiful," he groans. "Let me hear you."
I still don't know if he's talking to me or his fantasy…but I moan for him anyway. I fuck my fingers for him, too, imagining that it's him, not just his voice, but his fingers.
"That's it, Tia," he croons. "Keep moaning for me. Keep touching yourself for me."
Even though we're in different rooms, the doors closed between us, it feels like he's right here, guiding me through it.
I rock against my hand faster, my breath coming in sharp pants.
"Come for me, beautiful," he calls. "Come all over your hand for me."
My back arches, his name tumbling from my lips in a soft cry. I shatter, pulled over the edge by his voice, by the fantasy, by the fact that he knows what I'm doing right now.
I'm still shaking when I hear him groan my name.
My body melts into the bed, boneless at the way he says it—like he's been waiting a lifetime to growl it just like that.
The house falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge.
For a long moment, I lay there, waiting for him to say something, to acknowledge what just happened.
When he doesn't, I begin to wonder if maybe he was dreaming after all.
Maybe he has no idea that I just got myself off while moaning for him.
And then I hear his voice coming through the vent again.
"Sweet dreams, beautiful."
"Sweet dreams," I whisper back.
I find him in the kitchen in the morning, standing at the stove, fully dressed in the same suit he wore to dinner, cooking breakfast. For a moment, I just stand in the doorway, staring at him.
He moves efficiently, flipping bacon and whisking eggs, whistling to himself. If he's worried about what happened last night, he doesn't show it. He's calm and collected.
I'm anything but. I don't know what to say or how to act. All I know is that I got myself off to his voice last night. I let him hear me doing it.
"Morning, beautiful," he rumbles, glancing at me over his shoulder. His denim eyes are light as they run over me, like he's meticulously checking me from head to toe. "Did you sleep well?"
"I…" I guess we're going to pretend last night didn't happen then. Cool. "Yes." I shuffle into the kitchen, straight to the coffee pot.
I'm halfway through pouring a cup when I feel him behind me, pressing into me, caging me in. His arms come around me, his lips landing against the side of my throat.
The sound that leaves my lips isn't one I've ever made before now. It's not even one I'm sure I knew how to make until now.
I melt against him, my hands shaking as I set my mug on the counter, sloshing coffee over the rim. His erection nestles against the curve of my ass, his scent engulfing me.
"You're lucky you locked your door last night," he rasps against my skin, his stubble scraping. "If you hadn't, I would have been in that bed with you as soon as you moaned my name."
"I…I…" I don't know what to say. I'm not sure I'm ready to acknowledge what happened last night, so I spin instead, crushing my lips to his.
"Fuck," he grunts, catching me by the hips to lift me onto the island. One hand sinks into my hair, craning my head back. The other slips between my legs, his palm pressing against my center.
I cry out, arching up to meet his hand.
"You still wet for me, beautiful?"
"Yes," I gasp.
"Good," he grunts, nudging my sleep shorts aside.
My mind goes blank when I feel the heat of his hand on me, one finger sliding along my slit. I'm so wet, so fucking needy.
"Briggs, please," I sob, practically choking on his name and desperation in the same breath.
"Shh," he murmurs against my lips. "You don't have to beg me, Tia. I'll take care of you."
I nearly sob again when he touches me, his thumb grinding against my clit. I part my legs, trying to give him more room to work, but he's so big, they're already spread wide.
"Fuck," he groans, nipping and sucking at the side of my throat. "I don't know how I'm going to stay out of this perfect little thing, Tia. I'm already so fucking hard for you. So hard."