groaning as he goes, he pushes up and away from me.
Over my shoulder, I watch him take a deep breath then exhale, his head tipped to the ceiling, eyes closed, the earlier tension in his shoulders gone. I did that to him, I think, delighted and full of pride, but that quickly disappears when his chin dips back down. The devastation on his face as he pulls the condom off is alarming.
I get myself upright and open the cupboard door under the sink so he can toss the condom in the trash. “You okay?” I ask softly, reaching up to cup his cheek.
Instead of answering, he leans into my touch.
Unsure of what to do next, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Let’s go lie down for a while.”
Taking his hand, I lead him into my bedroom, a little surprised by how compliant he’s being, especially when he gets into bed without a word. It’s definitely a relief when he holds the covers up, inviting me to slide in beside him. Not that I was expecting rejection or anything, but I won’t deny that I was a little worried he’d regret our actions. Pulling me close, he settles my head on his shoulder, and the feeling of rightness that washes over me is mirrored by his contented sigh.
Silence descends on us, but it isn’t uncomfortable, it’s peaceful. The post-orgasm glow has me firmly in its grip; my limbs are weak and my mind is sluggish in a most agreeable way. And after a short while, I feel his breaths even out, making the glow burn brighter because he feels enough at ease to fall asleep beside me.
As my brain slowly comes back on line, I bask in the wonder of it all. Scott and I . . . did it. It. And it hadn’t felt cheap or dirty like so much of my past. I feel wanted, and my heart is about to burst with sappy happiness. I mean, holy crap, Scott McCarthy and I did it and now he’s naked and sleeping in my bed. I haven’t felt this light, this content, in so long.
When I feel him stir under me some time later, I lift my head from his shoulder to watch him wake, loving the soft, relaxed look on his face.
“Hey,” he rasps.
“Hey.”
He reaches a hand out to trace a line across my cheekbone. “How long was I out?”
“Not long,” I whisper, melting under his touch. “Maybe an hour or so.” His hand flops back to the bed and he stares up at the ceiling.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask hesitantly. The skin under his eyes is bruised with fatigue and I wonder again what happened tonight.
He focuses back on me, a slow grin starting to form on his lips.
“Oh, no,” I say quickly, realizing he’s misunderstood my meaning. “Not about that. I mean, uh . . . I mean, about what happened.” His brows tick up even farther and his smug grin expands, the bastard. I prop myself up on my elbow as I push at his chest playfully. “I mean about what happened before you got here?”
His teasing expression dims, and suddenly I’m uncertain if I’m supposed to be asking this kind of a question. Is this thing between us meant to be superficial? I don’t want that, but maybe he does. My brain ping pongs between all the ways I can play this . . . and then I balk. I don’t want to play this at all. No games. If he can’t handle my asking questions, it’s better to know now.
“I feel like I failed tonight,” he announces, pulling me from my thoughts. “My daughter’s so young, you know? And I should be able to protect her from the world’s bullshit.”
I give him a long look. “There was bullshit?”
He goes back to studying the ceiling. When he doesn’t answer me, the quiet begins to sink my mood.
“Well,” I say hesitantly. “Whatever happened, I hope your daughter’s okay, and I’m sure she knows it wasn’t your fault.”
He gives me a faint smile, but there’s melancholy etched into his features.
“You’re a good father, Scott,” I tell him truthfully. “I know because of the way you talk about those girls. You love them and you want the best for them. No child could ask for better.”
His lips thin into an angry line and my stomach turns nervously, leaving me afraid I’ve said the wrong thing. “She could have better,” he insists.