Chapter Twenty-Five

Jaymeson

I laid down in one of the six guest bedrooms and stared up at the ceiling. No chance in hell was I actually going to sleep.

Had I known a few months ago that I’d actually choose to undress a girl and then leave her alone in my bed without doing anything — even kissing her? I would have laughed my ass off.

My old self was gone.

I don’t even know how it happened.

Every time I tried to put the wall up or conjure up the desire to sleep around or drown myself in another girl…

I saw her face.

I felt raw, exposed, weak. Dammit! I flipped the pillow over and stared at the window as moonlight trickled in. My body was on freaking fire and I knew that even if I took a cold shower — all it would do would be alleviate me temporarily.

Licking my lips, I tried to concentrate on the wall. Right. That’s how far I’d fallen. I was staring at a wall and actually contemplating if counting sheep was a good way to fall asleep?

“One, two, three…” My whisper sounded so lame. I decided to count donkeys, because in my mind that seemed more badass — pun intended — than counting something fluffy.

“Four, five, sex…” Bloody hell.

With a grunt, I threw off the covers and walked out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen.

Tea.

Tea was the answer. I was British after all. Right? Right. You know you’re losing it when you’re actually asking yourself questions and hoping that your self will answer in the affirmative.

I tried to be quiet as I set the kettle on the stove and searched for a mug. I didn’t want to turn the light on because I figured it would trickle into the master bedroom, and I didn’t want to wake up the angel.

My hand hovered over the mug.

Since when did I start referring to her as an angel?

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the cabinet.

“Are you alright?” A voice jolted me out of my hell.

“Shit!” The cup tipped off the table; I barely caught it with my left hand. Heart racing, I glared at Pris. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Mugs don’t kill. Guns do.” She grinned.

“Cute, you should put that on a t-shirt,” I mumbled.

“Maybe I will.” Her voice was light, teasing. Why the hell wasn’t she in bed?

Bed. Bed. Bed. Sex. Shit. Bloody. Freaking. Hell.

My eyes scanned her half-naked body. She was wearing my boxers. Mine. Something that had once been against my skin was now touching hers. I’d probably never wash those boxers, I’d still be eighty and sleeping with them under my pillow telling myself that I made the right choice in leaving her behind, in keeping my heart closed in a cage where it belonged.

“Are you okay?” Pris took a tentative step toward me, her hand reaching out, making a beeline for my arm.

Her fingers grazed my skin.

I jerked back. “Uh, yeah.” Laughing, I grabbed an extra cup. “I just couldn’t fall asleep so I thought I’d make some tea.”

“Tea?” Her eyebrows rose. “How very proper.”

“That’s me,” I said dryly. “All…” My eyes raked over her muscular legs. “…proper.”

Clearing her throat, she stepped around me and grabbed the tea that I’d been holding onto like a lifeline. The way I figured, was if I was keeping my hands occupied then I wouldn’t be touching her. I wouldn’t be forcing myself on her, right? If I was touching tea I wouldn’t be touching tits.

Aw, shit.

I think I just made it worse.

Because my eyes naturally went to her chest, then snapped away like I was a fifth grader with his very first crush.

“So…” Pris ignored my jerky movements. She probably thought I was about ready to piss my pants or something. Ants in the pants, ants in the pants! Yes. I was officially reverting back to my childhood.

Trauma does that to a person.

So does delirium.

Insanity.

That’s what I was experiencing, because, dear God, she had vanilla-scented skin. I leaned toward her, my head turning into her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Checking.” I cleared my throat and stepped away.

“For?”

“Bed bugs.”

Yes. I’d just said bed bugs. I just officially ruined the mood and gave men everywhere a bad name.

“Eww!” She jumped into the air. “You have bed bugs?”

“No!” I yelled. “Of course not! But one should always be careful when one is staying…” I waved my hand into the air. “…abroad.”

“Stop saying one,” she snapped.

“Sorry.”

Shaking her head, she put a tea bag in each mug. The kettle whistled, prompting her to fill the mugs with the steaming water. I let her do it. My mind had left me and I knew my body was next to go — next in the very long line of betrayal. I figured if I touched the kettle I’d somehow find a way to burn my nether parts off. Because really, that’s just the type of night I was having.

“Here.” Pris thrust the mug into my hand, setting hers on the counter to cool, then jumped up and sat so she was at eye level with me. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep. Is there anything I can do?”

Yeah. She could stop — just stop — breathing so effing close to me.

Wait, did that mean I wanted her to die?

Shit. I was turning into a serial killer.