Chapter 10 In His Shirt
In His Shirt
Sabrina
It’s past midnight, and we’re still sitting on the couch.
I don’t know how it happened. One question turned into another, and another, until hours passed without either of us noticing.
He hasn’t once looked bored. Not one email, not one glance at his phone.
Just him, leaning back, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, asking me about my favorite street in Chicago, the first time I ever broke a bone, the worst job I ever had.
It’s… easy. Too easy.
I haven’t felt this kind of calm with a man in years. Maybe ever.
But then I yawn. Once. Then again.
Langston’s lips twitch. “Time for bed, sweetheart.”
The word slips through me like warm honey, and I tense.
He notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Not nothing. Everything.
I’ve spent my whole life being told to keep myself pure for marriage. My mother drilled it into me like a prayer before she died—save yourself, Sabrina. Don’t give that part away until it’s right. Until it’s forever.
Even when Elliott pushed for more, I held the line. I told myself it’s what my mother wanted. Eventually, it stopped being about her and started being about me.
And now?
A virgin bride at twenty-six.
Not something I thought would happen. Not like this.
My stomach flips. My fingers knot in my lap. How am I supposed to tell him? How am I supposed to explain that what he thinks is his isn’t actually his yet?
Langston must see something on my face, because his eyes soften.
“We’ll just sleep,” he says quietly. “Nothing else. Not tonight.”
Relief washes over me so fast it leaves me dizzy.
He stands and reaches out his hand. I stare at it for a beat, then let him pull me up. His palm is warm, his grip steady.
“Come on,” he murmurs.
I follow him toward the bedroom, still twisting my fingers.
“I don’t… have anything to wear to bed,” I blurt.
He glances back at me, amused. “Take a shower. I’ll be right back.”
I hesitate, then nod.
The bathroom is a beautiful sanctuary—white marble, gleaming fixtures, towels so soft they feel like clouds. I turn on the water and let the heat pound against my skin, tilting my head back, breathing deep.
For a few minutes, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to have Langston’s hands on me. Big. Steady. Strong. Tracing the curves of my body like he’s memorizing them. Pulling me close the way he did at the courthouse, only slower. Gentler.
The thought makes my knees weak, and I grip the edge of the tile until the heat of the water masks the heat in my face.
When I step out, there’s a T-shirt folded on the sink. Big, soft, and worn.
I smile despite myself.
He must have had it in his car.
I slide back into my dirty underwear—hating the feel of it against my clean skin—then pull the T-shirt over my head. It falls just below my ass, and the scent hits me instantly.
Langston.
I inhale, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. It’s unfair how even a smell can undo me like this.
When I finally walk into the bedroom, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but basketball shorts, broad chest bare, skin golden in the low light.
Tightness blooms in my stomach, crawling up my face until my cheeks burn.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
Langston chuckles, low and dark, like he’s caught me staring.
I square my shoulders and hold my ground, even though my instinct is to step back. To hide. He rises from the bed with that smooth, predatory grace and stalks toward me, stopping just inside my space.
He reaches up and pushes a damp strand of hair behind my ear, fingers brushing my skin.
I close my eyes, convinced he’s about to kiss me.
Instead, his breath is warm against my ear.
“Get into bed, sweetheart.”
Then he steps back, walks past me into the bathroom, and shuts the door.
The sound snaps me out of whatever trance I was in. My pulse is still hammering when I crawl into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like armor. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Maybe if I’m already “asleep” when he comes out, I won’t have to explain the chaos in my chest.
Maybe I’ll have more time to figure out what to say.
Or maybe, deep down, I’m just afraid that if I open my eyes… I’ll want him to touch me again.
I hear the bathroom door open.
My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t move. Not even when his footsteps cross the carpet. Not even when the mattress dips under his weight.
I lie stiff as a board, eyes squeezed shut, covers tucked under my chin like they’ll protect me from him.
And then it comes—that laugh. Low, deep, beautiful. The sound curls over me like smoke.
“Sweetheart,” he rumbles, amusement threaded through every syllable, “get comfortable. Lay like you would at home.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I obey, rolling onto my side with my back to him. It feels safer this way. Safer, but not safe enough.
Because then he shifts.
I feel the weight of his arm slip over my side, pulling me closer until his chest is pressed firm against my back. Until there’s no space left between us.
And then—God help me—I feel him.
Hard. Thick. Pressing against my ass like it belongs there.
My whole body goes rigid.
His breath brushes the back of my neck, and then his nose is in my hair, his face buried against my skin like he’s memorizing me.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. “Ignore it. I’ve got no control over it when it comes to you.”
The words send a shiver racing down my spine.
He wants me.
Langston Blackwell—stone-cold, controlled, infuriating Langston—wants me.
I smile into the dark, small and secret, before I let my eyes fall shut.
And slowly, with the steady sound of his breathing against my neck, I drift off to sleep.