His hand is still pressed against his thigh when he hears it—the soft click of her door, the shift of weight on carpet. He doesn't turn around. He can't. His breath catches in his throat as her footsteps stop behind him, close enough that he can feel her presence like heat on his back, close enough that her voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper against his ear.
"You're still here." It's not a question. It's not a command. It's wonder, raw and cracked, and he feels her fingers brush the back of his neck, featherlight, like she's testing whether he's real.
His whole body locks. The dust-and-beer smell of the carpet fills his nose, the harsh hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, and her fingertips tracing the short hairs at his nape. He doesn't dare breathe. Doesn't dare move. He's afraid if he does, she'll pull away and close the door again and leave him on this carpet for the rest of the night.
"I didn't think—" She stops. Her fingers slide into his hair, curling, gripping. Not hard. Just enough to feel the weight of her hand. "I thought you'd go to your room."
He shakes his head. A small movement, barely anything, but her grip tightens in response, a silent acknowledgment. He feels her shift behind him, the rustle of fabric, the warmth of her body moving closer until her knees brush his shoulders on either side. She's kneeling behind him. Her chest presses against his back, and he can feel her heartbeat through his shirt, or maybe that's his own, hammering so hard he can't tell the difference anymore.
"Look at me." Her voice is soft, but there's a thread of command running through it, the familiar cadence that makes his spine straighten. He turns his head, slow, and finds her face inches from his. Her dark eyes are wet at the edges, and she doesn't blink, doesn't look away. She looks at him like she's never seen him before. "You stayed."
"You told me to wait." His voice cracks on the last word. He doesn't say that she didn't tell him for how long. Doesn't say that he would have stayed until morning. She knows. He can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl deeper into his hair.
Her other hand comes up, cups his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. She's studying him, her gaze moving across his face like she's memorizing it. "I told you to finish the massage. I didn't tell you to wait for me."
"I know." He swallows. "I wanted to."
Something shifts in her expression. The mask she'd pulled back on in her room, the one she'd worn when she silenced her phone and walked away—it cracks again. Wider this time. She lets out a breath that shudders through her whole body, and she leans forward, pressing her forehead against his. Her eyelashes brush his skin. He can smell her—laundry detergent, the faint salt of sweat, something floral from her shampoo. She's so close he can feel the warmth of her lips when she speaks.
"Come to my room." Not a command. Not a request. Something in between. She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. "Stay with me tonight."
His hand moves before he thinks about it—lifts from his thigh, crosses the inches between them, and comes to rest on her ankle. Just his fingertips. Just the bare skin where her shorts end and her foot begins. He doesn't press. Doesn't stroke. He waits, his breath locked in his chest, and watches her face for the flinch that will tell him to pull away.
She doesn't flinch. Her dark eyes widen, just slightly, and she looks down at his hand like she's never seen anyone touch her before. Her throat moves as she swallows. "Tyler." His name, soft and questioning, and he doesn't know if it's a warning or an invitation, so he stays still, his fingertips resting on the delicate bone of her ankle, feeling her pulse skip against his skin.
"Is this okay?" His voice is rough, barely a whisper, and he hates how young he sounds, how desperate. But he needs to hear her say it. Needs to know that this isn't just another command she's giving him, that she actually wants his hands on her.
She holds his gaze for a long moment. The fluorescent hum fills the silence. Then she nods—a small, almost imperceptible movement—and her hand comes up to cover his, pressing his palm flat against her ankle. Her skin is warm. "Yes." Her voice cracks on the word, and she clears her throat, but she doesn't take it back. "Yes, it's okay."
His thumb traces the curve of her ankle bone, a slow, reverent circle. Her breath catches, and he feels it in his own chest, a mirror of the same sound she made in chapter one when he found the sensitive spot between her toes. He does it again, and her lashes flutter, her head tilting back just slightly, a quiet surrender he's only seen in glimpses before now.
"I want to touch you," he says, and the words feel too big, too raw, but they're true, and she deserves to hear them. "Not because you told me to. Because I want to." He slides his hand up, just an inch, from her ankle to her calf, and she doesn't stop him. Her skin is smooth, her muscles tense under his palm, and he feels her shiver.
"You're asking." Her voice is wonder again, that same cracked quality from when she found him still waiting. "You're actually asking." She laughs, a soft, breathless sound, and it's not mocking. It's amazed. "No one ever asks."
He doesn't know what to say to that. His hand stops moving, resting on the curve of her calf, and he looks at her—really looks at her, at the wetness in her dark eyes, at the way her lips part on a shaky exhale, at the vulnerability she's letting him see. "I'll always ask," he says. "I don't want to take. I want you to give it to me."
Her hand tightens on his, and she leans in, pressing her forehead to his again. Her breath is warm on his lips. "Then take me to my room." Not a command. A request, soft and trembling. "I want to give you everything."
His heart slams against his ribs, and he feels the denial rule burning in his chest, the ache of wanting her with every cell of his body. But he doesn't move toward his own need. He moves toward hers. He slides his hand down her calf, back to her ankle, and then to the carpet, pushing himself to his feet. He holds out his hand to her, palm up, waiting. She takes it.