Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dahlia
The second the patio door closes, the room goes painfully still, and the air feels colder than it did a minute ago. For a moment, I just lay there staring at the wall, listening to the sound of my own breathing.
What the hell was that?
Not the sex. I went into tonight knowing exactly what I wanted, and Echo more than delivered on my expectations.
I’m talking about that moment afterward.
The one where he stared into my eyes while he was still deep inside of me.
The one where he didn’t say anything, but the soft, almost reverent look on his face said everything.
He was looking at me like this meant more to him than just sex.
And for a second, it started to feel like more than sex for me, too. Then I panicked.
Was it a dick move to kick him out seconds after he came inside of me? Absolutely. But I didn’t want either of us lying there in the dark, saying something stupid and turning one reckless decision into a much bigger mistake.
I sit up and drag both hands through my hair.
I don’t know what the hell is going on with me.
I’ve done this before. Not with Echo, obviously, but the concept of hooking up with someone isn’t new to me.
I know how to keep sex simple. I’ve kept it simple with men who said all the right things and looked great on paper.
Men who were charming as hell, and who were significantly less dangerous than he is.
Keeping feelings out of it has never been an issue for me.
So why is my stomach twisting itself into knots right now?
I fall back against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling. Maybe it was the eye contact. I think I let it go on too long, and my brain started misinterpreting things. Attaching feelings to something simply because of the intensity of the moment.
It didn’t mean anything.
I mean, this is Echo we’re talking about.
The same man who breaks into my apartment, watches me sleep, and says deeply deranged things so confidently that my brain forgets I’m supposed to be alarmed by them.
Of course sex with him was intense. Of course the aftermath felt even more intense.
Everything about him is intense. He doesn’t know how to do anything casually, but that doesn’t magically turn one hookup into some grand emotional revelation.
If anything, it just proves that we need to keep doing it.
The first time is always weird. It’s loaded with so much curiosity and buildup that it makes everything feel bigger than it is.
But if we keep hooking up, that’ll take the novelty out of this.
It’ll prove that this thing between us is just chemistry and terrible judgment and a mutual inability to keep our hands off each other.
It’ll take the pressure off, so we can finally think clearly and see that this is nothing more than a friends with benefits situation.
I exhale slowly, feeling some of the knots in my stomach loosen.
Yeah. That’s what we’ll do. Next time, there will be no prolonged eye contact. No letting the moment linger so long that it grows feelings where there shouldn’t be any. We’ll have sex and act like normal adults about it.
I can control this. I know I can. I just need to treat it for what it is instead of letting my imagination run wild and turn a little post-sex intensity into something it’s not.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and open my text thread with Echo.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard as guilt gnaws at me. I should probably apologize for what happened. Or at the very least, acknowledge it. But the second I think about sending anything remotely sincere, my entire body recoils.
No, that would feed into the exact problem I’m trying to avoid.
I send him a different message. One that should make this feel simple again.
See you tomorrow?
His reply comes through immediately.
Of course
I set my phone back on the nightstand and pull the sheet up higher, ignoring the fact that my bed feels a little too empty without him in it.