The sheets were cool against his palms as he smoothed them over her hips, ready to stand, to say goodnight, to retreat to the guest room like he’d promised. But when he pulled back, her legs wrapped around his waist, her ankles locking behind him, a silent chain he couldn’t break. “Stay,” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow, and he froze, half-tempted, half-terrified.
He tried to gently pry her legs loose, but she only held tighter, her hips lifting slightly in a way that made his breath catch. “Just for a minute,” she said, but her legs told a different story—don’t go, not yet, please. He’d come here to fix things, to apologize, to keep his distance, but her body was a better negotiator than any words.
He sat on the edge of the bed, her legs still around him, and ran a hand through her hair. “You’re not playing fair,” he said, but there was no heat in it. When she looked up at him, her eyes dark in the dim light, he knew he was done for. Some goodnights are just excuses to see if you’ll stay—and her legs were very clear on what they wanted.