Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
"Leave that up to me," I say, knowing it'll probably only take seconds for Casper to hack the computer and camera system at Catalyst to figure out who that guy is.
I haven't messaged the guy yet because I'm here, and no harm will come to her so long as I'm in her home. When it's a decent time in the morning, I'll get the guy on the phone and figure out who the fuck her stalker is.
"I'll stay here tonight. You're safe."
My assurance doesn't seem to bring any form of relief.
"Would you like me to leave?"
She seems to mull over the question longer than I figured she would, but eventually, she shakes her head.
"I don't have anywhere for you to sleep," she says, pointing to the single recliner in the living room. "That thing isn't comfortable at all. Maybe you could—"
"Caitlyn—" I say, halting her train of thought because I swear if she mentions—
"We could share my bed, so long as you don't touch me," she continues, not bothering to heed my warning.
I swear my cock instantly swells in my jeans. There's a lot that can fucking happen even if I'm not touching her. She proved that very well the last time I was here.
Chapter 17
Caitlyn
Despite keeping his distance as he follows me down the hall to my bedroom, I feel his presence as if he's larger than life and breathing right down my neck.
Surprisingly, I don't hate the idea of it, despite all my misgivings about him being in my space.
I don't know where the bravery came from. The invite to share my bed sounded like it came from someone else.
I step further into my room, the bedside lamp casting the only glow across the bed.
He stands in the doorway, staring down at my bed as if it's somehow offensive to him, as if he's never seen one before.
"It's a queen," he manages on a swallow.
"Is that another jab about our socioeconomic standings being so different?" I ask, drawing his eyes to mine and making me instantly regret having all his attention on me.
"Who do you think I am?"
"A man who lives in a million-dollar cabin in one of the more expensive parts of the country," I say as if he should know better than to ask.
"I don't own the cabin, Caitlyn. My room there is part of my work contract."
I have a million questions I could ask, but doing so opens him up to do the same, and I know what the first one would be. Since I don't have a full understanding of my own issues, I'll be damned if I'm going to open myself up to further inquiry.
"I need to wash my face," I say, needing an escape more than anything else. "Make yourself comfortable."
I head toward the bathroom, holding the door open until Kiva steps inside with me.
I take my time, applying more lotion than I need to just so I can try and catch my breath.
When I step back out into the room, I'm surprised to see his boots beside my bed and him sitting on it.
I don't know why, but I fully expected him to offer to sleep on the floor or, hell, to even say he didn't plan on sleeping so he could keep a lookout to make sure I was safe.
"I can leave," he offers when he notices that I'm frozen in place.
I swallow, knowing that taking him up on the offer is probably best. I don't know what will cause me to sleep worse, him being in the living room so far away or him being beside me, fearful that he'll touch me when I'm unconscious and most vulnerable.
"You have a gun," I say stupidly, noticing the thing on the bedside table.
"I do," he says, offering no further explanation.
"Have you shot someone before?"
"Caitlyn," he whispers. "What's wrong?"
I drop my eyes from his face and notice the way he's fidgeting with his fingers.
Jesus, the wedding ring.
How could I have possibly forgotten about it?
"We had sex," I say, my stomach turning for the position I've put myself in for a second time with this man.
"We did."
"You're married."
It's as if the two words slam into him, and his hands freeze.
He was touching his ring, but now that I've mentioned his marriage, it's as if he's realizing he was touching it at all, as if it's a habit of his that no longer even registers.
His eyes darken, and I've been a therapist long enough to recognize pain and grief in someone's eyes.
He lost someone. His ring is an attachment to something he no longer has. Knowing it doesn't make me feel better. It doesn't bring relief of any kind. Hell, there's a part of me that would rather be the mistress than knowing he lost someone he cared for.
"I was," he clarifies, his voice stricken with a pain I can't even imagine.