Page 84 of Sin of Love
When I gape, he throws them back into the drawer.
“Regular lights? Or no lights? Whatever you want.” Crossing to the bed, he yanks the sheets down, then grimaces. “Is it too cold? Do we need more blankets?”
If we were different people, I’d be laughing at his behavior. But there’s nothing funny about the reason behind it. His clear anxiety, the long-term effects of watching me heal. Of suffering with me. Nothing funny at all.
“Gideon, stop.” I round the bed and grab his hand, stalling him in the middle of fluffing pillows. “Please.”
His head hangs. “I’m sorry. God, I feel so out of my depth.” Haunted eyes meet mine. “Please don’t tell me I’ve fucked this up.”
“You haven’t, I promise. We’ll do this together, okay?”
He shakes his head. “You’re in charge. Tell me what to do, because I feel like a pimply teenager who’s never touched a woman.”
The visual makes me laugh. “In that case, take off your clothes and sit on the bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t ever call me ma’am again.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Stop.”
“Boss?”
“No.”
“My queen?”
I groan.
