Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,57

softly – still, after everything, with great fondness.

She didn’t deserve him.

“I’m sorry.” She wiped at the tear tracks she’d left on his chest. “That was stupid.”

“It was normal. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I grabbed you by the dick and told you to just put it in me when you were trying to be good to me,” she argued.

He snorted. “Oh no. How will I survive?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I know you’re not done grieving him.” His smile managed to be wry and supportive at the same time. “You probably never will be, and that’s okay. I understand.”

She lifted her brows.

“I understand better than you want to give me credit for. But. It’s okay. This is what I was afraid of.” He cupped her cheek, and wiped the tears there with his thumb. “I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t in the right headspace for this.”

“But that’s just it: I think I am, now.”

He cocked his head to a questioning angle.

“Keeping my walls up. Isolating myself – being, frankly, a bitch to you – hasn’t made anything better.”

His thumb made another pass across her cheek, his throat working as he swallowed.

“You’re a good man, Lance.”

His eyes widened.

“And I…I hope I didn’t ruin things between us. Tonight.”

“No. Never.” He leaned in and kissed her. Softly, chastely. “Let’s get some sleep.”

She started to offer to leave and go back to her own room, but his arm was still snug around her, and the thought of pulling away from him left a physical ache in her chest. She nodded instead, and let him stretch them both out and pull the blanket over them; shivered gladly, because the sweat was starting to dry. He reached up to the wall and switched off the lights, plunging them into a dark broken only by the soft glow of the security light up in the corner.

She settled in on her side, facing him, and the arm across her waist felt sheltering, rather than restraining. She’d thought she’d lay awake, questioning, feeling guilty – but sleep came quick, blessed oblivion.

~*~

It was a common occurrence to wake in the middle of the night – but she was usually alone when it happened. This time, she opened her eyes to the dark, to the faint glow of a night light slanting across a bit of unfamiliar wall: a calendar she didn’t recognize tacked up to the concrete. Woke to the heft of a large arm across her waist, and the heat of a body against her back.

In the first moment of awareness, she thought, Beck. But the shape of him was all wrong, as was the scent of sheets, and sex, and skin. Comforting, yes, but not Beck.

Lance, instead.

She let out a slow breath and settled into the knowledge. Found that she didn’t hate it; it didn’t fill her with longing. The grief was still there, because it always would be, but it was compact and containable, bundled up in the back of her conscience. Now she was alone in the dark with someone else – someone good, and kind, and sexy, who cared for her. And she was sore in all the right places, deliciously languid, and everything was alright. For now.

She hadn’t thought she’d made any noise, but Lance stirred behind her. Let out a deep, tired – but awake – breath against the back of her neck that left her shivering pleasantly. His arm tightened a fraction, hand pressing flat to her stomach. “You okay?”

She laid her hand over his; felt the faint, steady bump of his pulse through the veins that laced the back of it. “Yeah,” she said, and meant it.

They lay like that, fitted together like spoons, for a few long, quiet moments. It didn’t feel awkward, like she’d expected. Fucking had been an admission and a necessary crescendo of tensions all at once. There was no pretending now that they weren’t attracted, that there wasn’t some caring on both sides – though she suspected more on his than on hers. Still. It felt like an accord had been settled. Felt like it was okay when she started to trace the backs of his fingers with the tips of her own.

“What you said before,” she broached, “about next time…”

He thought a beat, and then snorted against the back of her head, his breath ruffling her hair. “I shoulda known.” His voice was different like this, freshly awake; rough and throaty in a way that made it hard to concentrate on what he was