Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,103

stuff is so different than mine. He just seemed so lost. I can see that he’s in so much pain, and I’m not even really sure what to do for him. It’s hard, and it already really hurts, and we don’t even know each other long term or anything. There have been so many moments that I’ve had my arms around him, just holding him. I can feel how much he needs it. I can tell he’s trying to be strong. I asked once in bed last night if he was awake and he said he didn’t know. And then he said he was sorry. For having this traumatic dream where he sobbed and sobbed. I can’t even imagine him there by himself when that happens. Even last night with me there… he really didn’t accept that much comfort from me.

Downstairs earlier in the night he laid on the floor with me after telling me about how he sees people he knows, dead. He let me hold him, and he held me back. But after his dream, the second he was collected enough to get up, he did. He had a really hard time accepting comfort from me at first. And I said we should sleep together more—like the close your eyes kind of sleep—and he didn’t get why I would offer. I don’t know. It makes me sad.

And then there’s this entire other element because we had sex last night. THREE times. He took me from behind the first time downstairs, and oh my God—the way his dick rubbed my G-spot. He’s…shall we say ‘well hung’ and he knew just when to reach around and rub. I still get all hot thinking of it. And then upstairs… We got this bath together after his nightmare, and I was in the bath with him and… Whoa. He’s just so beautiful. I can’t even. Even his feet are perfect.

I found out he’s 29, and he says in special forces, that’s old. He said he heard me talk at county commission, and you know what, I think I remember? I’m going to ask him next time I see him if he has a blue ball cap. Anyway—geez. He’s said so many kind things to me. So many sweet things. Still, I didn’t feel like I knew for sure what was going on until he jumped on me at the end of our bath last night. He said something like “I tried to stop myself.” All his sounds, all his movements, they were frenzied. As soon as we finished, we went and got in bed, still wet. I’ve felt on guard for so long, and lonely, and then I’m with Barrett and I just feel like I can rest. I’ve got it bad. I know. The funny thing is, I’m scared but in a larger way I’m not. I feel like someone standing on a precipice with my arms stretched wide. I’m not scared of falling. Especially if he falls with me, and I can hold onto him.

I laugh when I realize I didn’t write a thing about my own trauma or my own nightmares. But that’s not bad, I tell myself.

I notice when I put my journal back on my bedside table that it’s 4:30. I wonder what he’s doing. Then I tell myself I can’t wonder. I make a plan to take a bubble bath, in which I’ll shave and groom…certain areas. Then I’ll lotion myself up and re-paint my nails and maybe do a mask. After which I may have some Absinthe. I might cook the tenderloin I got the other day: an easy, crockpot thing. Then, if nothing else comes up, I’ll read. I’m still a little tired from last night, so if nothing else happens, I’ll hit the hay early and skip my workout today.

I do a good job sticking to my vows, and I do things in the order I planned. I’m lying on my bed, holding my phone up above my face so I can read Kyland by Mia Sheridan, one of my favorite authors, when I hear my doorbell ring.

I swear, my heart nearly explodes. I set my phone down, grab a deep breath, and look down at myself.

It’s probably the mailman, I tell myself. Mom was going to send a package with some jeans she bought me at some special best-ass-ever jeans store. I tap my face—my cracking, blue-green face—and tip-toe to the door. I peer through the peephole and my stomach ties itself