Chapter 144
Emily's POV
Nobody spoke for a long moment. The only sounds in the room were our ragged breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. I could feel Alex's heartbeat against my back, could feel Mason's hand still resting on my thigh like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to let go yet.
Then Alex shifted, his hands coming to my waist as he carefully lifted me off his lap. For a moment I was suspended between them, boneless and compliant, and then he was lowering me down onto the couch between he and Mason. Mason's hand never left my thigh.
Alex pressed a kiss to my shoulder blade before he eased away completely, and the loss of his body heat made me shiver. I heard him make a low sound that might've been amusement or satisfaction—I was too wrecked to tell which.
"Mason," Alex said, his voice rougher than usual but still carrying that note of easy command. "Go finish dinner."
I turned my head just enough to see Mason's face. He was flushed and dazed, and when he looked at Alex there was something in his expression I couldn't quite name—gratitude, maybe, or relief that someone was telling him what to do next.
"Yeah," Mason said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."
He pulled away from me completely then, and I watched him straighten up slowly, his hands smoothing down the front of his shirt where it had gotten rumpled. He moved with that same careful efficiency I'd noticed before, like he was trying not to take up too much space, trying not to remind anyone he was still here. When he glanced back at me—just once, quick and uncertain—I managed to give him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
He disappeared into the kitchen, and a moment later I heard the water turn on and the soft clatter of pans being moved around. Back to normal. Back to safe.
Alex stood up from the couch and stretched. Then he looked down at me—still sprawled on the couch, boneless and sticky and wearing nothing—and his mouth curved into that private smile that always made my stomach flip.
"Come on," he said, holding out a hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I stared at his hand for a second, then at his face, and felt something shift in my chest. Not quite trust—I wasn't sure I'd ever fully trust Alex, not the way I trusted Ethan—but close enough. Close enough to let him pull me up off the couch, close enough to let him lead me down the hallway toward the bedroom.
My legs were shaky and unsteady, and halfway there I stumbled. Alex caught me immediately, his arm around my waist again, and I heard him make a soft sound that might've been concern or amusement or both.
"I've got you," he murmured against my ear, and I believed him.
He steered me into the bedroom and deposited me on the edge of the bed with the kind of care that felt at odds with everything that had just happened in the living room. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the sound of running water and drawers being opened and closed.
Alex came back with a warm washcloth and knelt in front of me, and before I could process what was happening he was cleaning me up with the same focused efficiency he brought to everything else. His touch was gentle and thorough, and I found myself watching his face instead of what his hands were doing—watching the way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the way his mouth pressed into a thin line like this mattered, like I mattered.
When he was satisfied, he tossed the washcloth toward the bathroom and stood up, pulling me to my feet along with him.
"Arms up," he said.
I blinked at him. "What?"
"Arms up," he repeated. "I'm getting you dressed."
I should've protested. Should've told him I was perfectly capable of dressing myself. But I was tired and wrung out and still floating in that hazy post-orgasm space where everything felt soft around the edges, so instead I just lifted my arms.
He moved to the closet and pulled out one of his T-shirts—soft and oversized and smelling like his laundry detergent—and when he came back I kept my arms raised and waited.
"You're really committing to this, huh?" he said, and there was amusement in his voice now, warm and genuine.
"You tore my shirt," I said, aiming for accusatory but landing somewhere closer to petulant. "And my skirt. This is your responsibility."
"Is that right?"
"Yep." I wiggled my fingers for emphasis. "So get to it."
He laughed—a real laugh, the kind I didn't hear from him often enough—and tugged the shirt over my head. I let myself go completely limp, making him do all the work of threading my arms through the sleeves and pulling the fabric down over my torso, and when he finally got me sorted I flopped back onto the bed like a puppet with cut strings.
"You're ridiculous," he said, but his voice was soft and fond in a way that made my chest ache.
"I'm a princess," I corrected, spreading my arms out on the mattress like I was making a snow angel. "A spoiled, boneless princess who requires assistance with basic tasks."
"Clearly." He pulled out a pair of my pajama shorts from the dresser and came back to the bed, dangling them in front of my face. "Legs up."
I lifted my legs obediently, and he worked the shorts up to my thighs before I had to shift my hips to let him pull them the rest of the way. When he was done, he stood back and surveyed his work with his hands on his hips, and I could see him trying not to smile.
"There," he said. "Dressed. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," I said, still sprawled on the bed like a starfish. "You're very good at this. Wasted in the business world. Should've been a royal dresser."
"I'll add it to my résumé."