Anthony's POV
I carried her up the stairs, careful not to jar her bandaged foot. She was light in my arms, her head tucked into the crook of my neck, her breath brushing against my collarbone in soft, steady pulses. The storm outside hadn't let up, but for the first time in hours, she looked at peace.
Her room was warm and smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet—probably her shampoo. I settled her onto the bed gently, but her arms didn't let go. Her fingers, small and soft, were still wrapped around my shirt.
"Stay," she mumbled, barely awake.
I swallowed hard and nodded, kicking off my shoes and slipping in beside her.
She rolled into me instantly—like her body knew mine without needing permission. Her leg draped over mine, her cheek rested on my chest, and her arm curled against my side like I was the safest place in the world.
But I wasn't safe.
Not for her.
Not right now.
She was in a thin nightgown that barely covered the curve of her ass, and every time she moved—just the smallest shift—her skin brushed against mine like silk over a flame. I could feel the swell of her breasts against my chest, the soft puff of her breath against my collarbone, and the echo of her lips from that kiss still pressed into my memory.
I closed my eyes, trying to breathe, but it was useless. My body was already betraying me, and there was no way I could sleep like this.
I had an erection so hard it was painful, pressed up against the fabric of my sweats, and every time she shifted or sighed, it pulsed in response. It was torture. Not just because I wanted her, but because I wanted to be inside her so badly, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Not now. Not when she was vulnerable, trusting, half-asleep and healing.
I turned my head slightly and looked down at her, watching how peaceful she looked, how her lashes fluttered in dreams, how the storm outside hadn't touched her calm. The lightning flashed faintly through the window, casting shadows across her face, her skin glowing in the low light.
She was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.
I thought maybe holding her would bring me comfort. Instead, it was unraveling me thread by thread. The memory of her mouth on mine, her breathless confession—I like you, Anthony—was playing on repeat in my head like a song I never wanted to forget.
I tried to slide out of bed once, just to get some air, to maybe cool down. But her hand gripped my shirt in her sleep, tugging me back with a strength I didn't expect from someone so soft.
So I stayed. Of course I stayed.
I shifted just enough to adjust myself without waking her, but it didn't help much. Nothing would. Not until morning. Not until this storm passed—inside and out.
So I lay there, jaw clenched, heart pounding, with the girl I wanted more than anything sleeping in my arms, and the storm raging outside like it knew the war I was fighting.