Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(42)

What he needed.

Him sleeping where he knew I was safe.

No man, not one my entire life, needed that from me.

Or wanted to give it to me.

So what the f*ck did I do with that?

“Cher,” he growled an impatient prompt.

“All right, all right,” I snapped, pulling my head from his hold. “Keep your pants on.”

I moved to the gun. I grabbed the gun. I went to the kitchen and turned out the light. I walked to Merry, by Merry, and down the hall.

I felt Merry at my heels and he stayed at my heels until we hit my room.

I heard him close the door.

I went to my closet, shoved the beaded curtain that hid my shit aside, and reached high to my safe that was on a shelf.

Nothing was in that safe but Ethan’s birth certificate and our social security cards, so I hadn’t bothered locking it up after I got the gun. I shoved the gun in, locked it, and went back through the beads.

I stopped at the sight of a barefoot Merry, leather jacket on the floor, shoulder holster with gun lying on the nightstand, his hands and shoulders moving to shirk off his unbuttoned shirt.

There was a lot of goodness that was Merry that I’d discovered the previous Friday.

His body was definitely a part of this.

I knew he had sinewy forearms because I’d seen him in tees. Those sinews writhed with movement in a way that I had to guard against watching or it would put me in a happy trance I might never want out of.

This, I’d learned Friday night (or actually Saturday morning), was just a hint at the tall, lean mountain of goodness that was Merry without clothes.

I would struggle to rank my favorite parts (outside of one in particular, which was obvious). He had great everything—shoulders, chest, biceps, abs, the hip V, his thighs.

But however that list came about, special mention would have to be made to the dark hair he had on his stomach. Not a heavy mat across his chest and down. The hair started on the upper ridge of his abs, spreading out and down, sparse and enticing.

It got better as it gathered and thickened at the center of the second ridge, down more, more, more, like a line on a map with the arrow at the end, pointing at buried treasure.

And one could definitely say the arrow at that particular end pointed to serious buried treasure.

“Babe.”

I started, my eyes darting from his crotch to his face.

Even though he caught me checking out his package, all he said was, “Tired.”

I nodded and moved to him.

I was barefoot too, in my jeans, tank, and bra from work. I stopped a couple of feet from him, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was twisted to turn out the lamp beside my bed.

I saw the range of his ribs cutting down from the swell of his lat before the room was plunged into darkness.

I undid my belt buckle, the button, unzipped my fly, and pulled my jeans down my legs.

I’d barely straightened when he hooked an arm around my waist. I swallowed a yelp, noting he’d thrown back the covers, because when we hit the bed, we were in bed.

Merry tossed the covers over us, rolling so I wasn’t on top of him but we were on our sides, face-to-face. The roughness of his jeans gently scored the skin of my legs as he wound his in mine, leaned his weight in to me, his arm remaining around me, the other hand coming up to cup the back of my head.

He shoved my face in his chest.

It took a lot, but I didn’t rub it there. I wanted to, feeling him, smelling him, knowing he was there for the reasons he was, wanting to believe that what he was giving right then could be mine for eternity.

He’d made it clear he wanted me to take hold of that.

I just doubted his ability to really give it.

Not in the way I needed.

Not in the way that needed to be for Ethan and me.

I heard his head move on the pillow, then I felt his quiet words stir the top of my hair.

“Like your room.”

This surprised me.

For mental health purposes, I’d never allowed myself to consider the environs that would surround an at-home Garrett Merrick. But in that moment, I pictured lots of wood, some seascapes, a gun rack, and a very large TV.

“Don’t believe in ghosts but evidence points to the fact that the spirit of Janis Joplin puked all over your pad.”

I didn’t have a lot of room to move, but I was me, so I managed to sock him right in his tight stomach.

He emitted a soft grunt right before I heard chuckling.

I shifted so I could press my hands into his hard heat, not to push him away but to absorb the feel of him right there.

Life had not given me much, so I knew to take what it gave when it offered me a boon. Since it had offered me a boon, I was taking it. Tomorrow, I’d face the consequences.

Now…

Well, this I was taking for me.

I got the sense that Merry knew I wasn’t pushing away because he pulled me closer and leaned more of his weight into me.

I felt his hand tangle in my hair and I closed my eyes tight, taking that boon too, no matter how risky.

“You know I’m teasin’,” he whispered. “It’s cool and warm and all you.”

God, he had to stop. If he didn’t shut up, I’d start believing, and I’d believed before—twice—and except for getting Ethan, it had not lead to good things.

“I thought you said you were tired,” I noted.