Chapter 24 Holding Back
Holding Back
By the time she came downstairs, the air between them was already charged.
Chase had showered in the downstairs bath, fresh and clean, but there was nothing calm about the way he sat on the couch, watching her.
And fuck, he looked too good.
His damp hair curled slightly, the ends clinging to the skin at the nape of his neck, a few stray drops of water sliding down to disappear beneath the thin, white tank stretched across his broad chest. The dim lighting cast flickering shadows over the ridges of his sharp jaw, the dark scruff shadowing his face in a way that made her want to run her tongue over it.
The deep ink of his tattoos contrasted against golden, tanned skin, every muscle thick, defined, flexing beneath her stare.
And those damn gray shorts.
Loose and low on his hips, just enough to be dangerous.
There was no mistaking the etched bulge of his cock beneath the fabric. A sign of what she could have.
And yet, he sat there like a man completely in control. As if his body wasn’t betraying him. As if his self-control wasn’t wearing dangerously thin.
Savannah had stolen one of his t-shirts from the laundry room before coming downstairs—soft, white, oversized, barely skimming the tops of her thighs. That was it. No leggings. No pajama shorts.
Just his shirt. And her.
The air thickened as his gaze flicked over her, slow and unhurried, drinking in bare legs, damp curls, the outline of her nipples beneath thin cotton.
"Feel better?" His voice was deep, husky, a slow drag of heat over her skin.
Savannah swallowed, feeling something tight coil in her belly. "Yeah." She said quickly.
He patted the space beside him, but she saw it—the clench of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way his thighs tensed.
Still, she sat.
Right beside him.
She tucked one leg under her, curling against his chest like she belonged there. His scent surrounded her—clean, crisp, masculine—and when his arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his fingers tracing absentmindedly along her shoulder, her pulse skipped.
The movie started.
Savannah wasn’t watching. She was feeling.
Her fingers traced his tattoos without thinking, outlining the swirls of ink that curved over his forearm, the intricate lines that wrapped up his bicep, disappearing beneath his tank. His skin was warm, firm beneath her touch, and she wondered what it would feel like to trace every inch of him.
Chase inhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand.
"You keep doing that, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick, low, dangerous, "and we’re not gonna make it through this movie."
A shiver curled down her spine.
She smirked.
Still, something in her thoughts lingered, gnawed at her. So she asked.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Chase turned slightly, fingers still stroking along her back. "Yeah. Shoot."
She hesitated, then exhaled. "Do you promise to be honest with me?"
His brows furrowed. "Of course."
She finally forced the words out.
"How many women have been in your bed?"
Chase stilled.
She saw it—the way his jaw ticked, his lips parted slightly, his fingers tensed against her waist.
But he didn’t hesitate.
"None."
Savannah’s breath caught. “None?”
His hand slid to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin. His voice dropped low, deep, raw.
"The Echoes of Us—this house, this space, my bed—it’s yours." He tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him, to feel the weight of his words.
"I’ve never brought a woman here. Never even considered it." His voice turned rougher. "If you hadn’t come back, my bed would have only ever held me."
She didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Because fuck.
Fuck.
The weight of those words wrecked her.
Chase had been waiting for her.
And she wasn’t going to waste another second.