Chapter Eleven
Laundry detergent. Was there any greater smell to wake up to?
Sejal buried her face in her pillow and inhaled. When she’d been a kid, laundry had been one task she hadn’t minded being
in charge of. Her dad had been as lackadaisical about chores as he was about everything else, and she’d liked the feeling
of fresh clothes too much to risk him piling her stuff in a corner of the living room and forgetting about it.
Had anyone made sure Mira had freshly washed clothes and sheets after she’d left home? Or had her little sister had to pick
up that slack in the house, too?
Sejal burrowed deeper into the pillow to rid herself of that unpleasant guilt-inducing reminder. And then she realized her
pillow had a heartbeat. And was breathing.
Oh, God. She opened her eyes. It wasn’t fabric softener she was inhaling, or at least not entirely, but Irish Spring soap.
And it wasn’t a pillow, but Krish’s very broad, muscular chest that she had her face smashed in. She was layered on top of
him like a blanket, her feet and legs between his, pelvis to pelvis. And his pelvis was at attention.
Sejal clambered up onto her elbows. The not-a-pillow gave a soft oof, and then his arms were around her. He easily moved her to the side, like she weighed nothing. She rolled to sit up on her
knees as he rose up on his elbow and scrubbed his hand over his face.
In the early morning light, his hazel eyes were lighter and . . . hotter. And fixed right on her. He’d never looked at her
like this, except in the bar that first night, when she’d kissed him.
She blinked, and in that split second he looked away, staring fixedly at a spot past her head, and his face was so blank she
might as well have completely dreamed up those sexy bedroom eyes.
She wiped the drool from her chin as discreetly as she could. She’d fallen asleep hard after the more than perfect orgasm
he’d given her. “How long have I been, uh . . .”
“On top of me? A while, I think. I can’t imagine you were very comfortable, but you were clinging so tightly I didn’t want
to risk waking you by moving you.”
She fought her blush. While she hadn’t gotten a full report from past lovers on how she slept, she was pretty sure none of
them would describe her as clinging.
To think she’d been worried she would punch the guy if she brushed up against him in her sleep. Instead, she’d climbed on
top of him like he was her own personal mountain.
So, so far, sleeping with Krish did not trigger her PTSD. Good to know. “Sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine. I didn’t mind. You were tired. And I was cold, anyway.” He sat up. They’d kicked the blankets to the bottom of
the bed, and the chest she’d spent the whole night lovingly nuzzling was on full display.
He had a disgustingly beautiful chest, and it gleamed in the weak, golden sunlight. Strong, big, with a smattering of hair covering it. His belly had a slight curve she wanted to nibble at. His plaid pajama pants hung low, right over his hip bones.
The soft cotton clung to his erection, which was something else she wouldn’t mind nibbling on. She’d had some vague idea of
doing exactly that after her climax, but then sleep had called her.
“Sejal?”
She jerked her gaze up to his, guiltily. “Ah, sorry,” she said again.
“For what?”
“For leaving you, ah—” She gestured to his general pants region. “Unsatisfied last night.”
He looked down and then back up, and she was surprised to see that his cheeks had darkened. Was he blushing? “I, um—” He shoved
himself off the bed, nearly tumbling onto the floor before catching his balance and coming to his feet. He turned his back
on her. “It won’t kill me.”
Cynicism made her lips curve. “Most men would say different.”
He grunted. “Boys. A man can control himself. Besides, I prefer what we did . . . that is, there’s different kinds of satisfaction.”
She clutched the neckline of her shirt, and she wasn’t sure if she was preparing to tear it off or to keep it on. Because
apparently, if there was anything that could tempt her into giving a blow job, it was a man who would rather go down on her.
He went to the foot of the bed and picked up the fresh clothes they’d kicked onto the floor. “But of course, that was a mistake.”
She blinked at him. “Huh?”
“That.” He cocked his head at the side of the bed, where he’d worked her over like a maestro. “I’ve been thinking about it.
We must have been reacting to the stress of everything. Because we were finally in a safe place. It was a release, an outlet.”
Oh. Her hand fluttered to rest on the pillow. That sounded reasonable.
She hated it.
Because what she’d felt last night—hell, what she was feeling right now—wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t even something she could
put into words.
What had culminated between them with his mouth on her body hadn’t been merely an adrenaline release. This same spark had
been smoldering since she’d first laid eyes on him.
“I mean, you and I . . . that would be ridiculous, with everything between us.”
“Ridiculous,” she repeated.
“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again,” he continued, casually, like it was fucking easy to promise to never touch her again.
Irritation made her voice sharp. “Well, that’s a relief.”
He held the new clothes in front of him like a shield. “You okay?”
“Yup.” She gave him a smile that she feared looked more like a grimace. “You’re right. Mistake.”
He searched her face for a moment, then nodded. “I’m going to take a quick shower.” She wouldn’t say he ran away from her,
but his gait was definitely faster than a walk.
She sat there for a moment in the empty room, gathering her composure. Stupid Viktor! He had triggered her kidnapping trauma
and made her all weird in the brain around Krish. First going hungry so she could get him a salad, then the kiss in the woods,
and last night spreading her legs for him. Yeah, this was all Viktor’s fault.
Annoying.
The clock on the wall said it was seven, which was early for her on a normal day, but not when they were running for their lives and, she assumed, needed to get on the road.
That’s right. You’re not here to have no-strings-attached sex with a man you met in a bar. You’re on the run, your life is
in danger, and you’re just days away from never seeing this guy again. You can’t be annoyed that he called sex—or almost sex—with
you a mistake.
You don’t want him, and he doesn’t want you.
Plus, you’re going to see his mom shortly.
Ugh. If there was anything that could douse ardor, it was parents.
Sejal hoisted herself out of bed. The shower sound was loud in this room, reminding her of what had woken her up last night.
Did Krish normally shower twice a day?
Maybe he needs to wash away memories of the night.
Her lips turned down. Damn it, no more vulnerability.
She’d washed her underwear and left it drying on the radiator. She put on her panties and bra and tried not to think about
how Krish had stripped her underwear off.
His mom. Think of his mom.
She ran instantly cold. Wow, this was actually a great mental trick.
She dug into the clothes. Patrick had left her what was clearly Krish’s mother’s joggers and sweatshirt. They were probably
oversized on the petite woman, but they came to Sejal’s ankles and were snug around her hips. She tugged at the sweatshirt.
It was gray, with a big red maple leaf on it. She liked Canada, too, so it was cool.
She made the bed quickly, mostly so she wouldn’t have to look at the rumpled covers. Since she was alone, she did what she’d
been too tired to do last night and snooped.
The place was so . . . homey. The big room was decorated in a charming farmhouse style that was vintage instead of old-fashioned, with whitewashed furniture, pale cream bedding and curtains, and a floral wallpaper.
It could have been anyone’s second home, a vacation retreat. Except for a few key things.
“What are you doing?”
Sejal shut the dresser drawer and looked over her shoulder. “I’m clearly stealing the silver from your mom’s—” She got distracted
by his outfit. “Wait. Please tell me that’s not what you’re wearing.”
He looked down at his gray sweatsuit. It was identical to hers, except where hers was snug, his fit perfectly, probably because
he and Patrick were roughly the same size. His feet were bare.
So odd, his naked feet. They were big and strong, but oddly vulnerable. She hadn’t noticed his feet before, but then again,
she didn’t tend to notice anyone’s feet.
“Patrick has always tried to get my mom to wear matching clothes.”
She turned to face him. “We cannot be walking around wearing matching clothes.” Not when they were very much not a couple,
as he’d made clear.
“There’s not much we can do about it now. We’ll go shopping for new clothes after breakfast.”
“We have time for breakfast? And to go shopping?”
“We have lots of time. It’ll take at least the day to get a new clean car and money.”
“Ah.” Yay. More time to feel awkward around Krish. No. If he’s not feeling awkward about this, you won’t, either.
“Thanks for making the bed.”
“No problem.”
He rocked back on his naked feet. “So, um, we should talk about the elephant in the room.”
“We already talked about it. Mistake. Stress. Won’t happen again.”
“Ah, not that. I meant my mom.”
Right. The mom. “You mean why your mother has a safe house?”
His response was sharp, and telling. “It’s a regular old house.”
“It’s very clearly a safe house.” She gestured around her. “It’s impossible to get to, I noticed multiple cameras on the outside
when we came in, and there were at least seven locks on the front door. There’s nothing personal in this room. No photos of
you or your family anywhere that I saw. The drawers and closets are almost empty.”
“My parents have always preferred to live off the grid as much as possible.”
Sejal could see the mom living off the grid. Patrick, though? He’d talked her ear off in the short time he’d shown her to
the room. “Your father seems pretty friendly for a hermit.”