“Maybe. Maybe not. But I need to find out. And without you, I don’t think I would have known how.”
“Ty?”
“Yeah?”
“I do love you,” he says.
I smile sadly. “I know. And one day, I’m going to be worthy of hearing it.”
“You already are.”
I reach down and pull the blankets over us. “One day at a time,” I say with a yawn. “That’s what we have to do. Just take it one day at a time.”
He looks as if he’s going to say more, but then he sighs. “Okay.”
Later, when I’m on the edge of sleep, I hear him whisper, “You’ll see. One day, you’ll see what I’ve seen all along.”
And then I’m gone.
27. Where Tyson Faces the Music
WHEN I wake, the afternoon sun stretches across the wall. D
om snores softly at my side, his hand stretched across my chest. Deciding it’s okay to be one of those creepy people just this once (I have just lost my virginity, after all), I watch him sleep for a little while. He looks at ease, the pinched lines around his eyes of late gone, at least for now. I don’t know if I was the cause of them or the cure. Maybe both.
I know what you’re probably thinking. This is going to be the part where I decide to do something stupid like run, or I’m going to freak out and try to sneak away and wonder why I ever slept with him to begin with. My angst will rise again (has it ever really gone away?) and I’ll feel sorry for myself and lash out at him and Bear and Otter, saying I’m not good enough for them and will disappear and blah, blah, blah.
Maybe. I doubt it. But it wouldn’t surprise me.
I might not be good enough for him. But I want to be. And we all know what happens when I want something. When I put my mind to something. I either see it through to the end or let it blow up in my face and wonder what the hell just happened.
That face, though. His face. So handsome. I do love him. I just need to make sure I deserve it.
I’m thirsty. And my ass feels like it just got punched with a penis.
I suppose it did. But I’m still thirsty.
I take his hand off my chest and place it on the bed. He mutters something, but doesn’t wake. I kiss his cheek. I’m allowed.
My boxers are on the floor, over in the corner. I’m puzzled how they got so far, but then I remember he essentially ripped them off me and flung them over his head. I don’t know where my pants ended up. My shirt is hanging off his dresser. Good enough.
The day is bright. It’s like Mother Nature knows I’ve been fucked within an inch of my life and is letting the sun shine down in total celebration. I have a feeling that if I were to go outside, birds would fly around me, singing to me like I’m some kind of Disney Princess.
Okay, I might still be out of it. I’m not a Disney Princess.
I’m not even to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
Shit.
I don’t want Dom to wake up. He needs his sleep.
But I also don’t want to answer the door. What if it’s one of his cop buddies? What if they see me in my underwear and they don’t know he’s… well, whatever he is? I mean, he’s got to be at least bi. Not that it matters. Labels aren’t important. Well, except they are. Like, what are we now? Is he my boyfriend? Or my partner? Or my fuck buddy? Or—
Shit. I’m doing that thing I said I wouldn’t do.
The doorbell rings again.
Fuck it. I’m decently covered. I got this.