“It’s not for sex, Poppy. It was never about sex. It’s for you. I wantyouhere. Please.”
My lungs tighten because this is getting deep. No. It’s already deep. Now it’s getting bottomless. “Why?”
“Because you make me…” He shakes his head as he sighs, weaving his fingers through the strands again. “I can’t explain it, but you…You make me forget, Poppy. All the emotions I don’t want to handle, all my issues? When you’re around, it turns into background noise, and all I see is you.”
If I weren’t already against the door, I’d stagger back. My heart flips and double flips, and I think my lips have gone numb. That confession was probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean it that way. Right? Because that would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it? There’s no way…
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispers when I don’t respond, snapping me out of my internal freak-out.
“I-I’m thinking that is the sweetest and most confusing thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” I admit through a tight, dry throat. “What are you trying to say, Jagger? What do you want from me?”
“For now, I just want the weekend.”
I’ve never had a panic attack in my life. Even during the most stressful times, I think I’ve remained calm, if impulsive.
But I’ve spent my life in the world of ballet. Contrary to popular belief, performance anxiety is a common phenomenon even among the most seasoned dancers. I’ve watched the sweat break across their forehead. Heard the tales of the tingling extremities and numb faces. Know about the roar of blood so loud in your ears it makes your eyes squeeze shut.
Thank God, they also told me how to deal with them, because otherwise, I’d be a sniveling mess on the floor right now as my overactive mind analyzes and re-analyzes the meaning behind what he said.
He says the weekend, but it’s thefor nowpart my brain is clinging to. As if he sees the possibility of more. Even hopes for it.
I couldn’t keep a boyfriend when I had time. What makes me think I can now, when I barely sleep? Always accused of not being one hundred percent in the relationship. Too focused on my career.
The list goes on and on.
If I couldn’t make it work then, I definitely can’t now. I don’t have time for anyone else but me in my life. The bandwidth isn’t there. My days are eighteen hours long and sometimes longer, and all about survival.
There’s no way someone like Jagger could handle my schedule. He must be accustomed to women dropping everything at a moment’s notice. Someone like me, with a schedule like mine, could never make him happy. He must know that.
Of course he does. He wouldn’t even consider it. I’m reading too much into this.
I tell myself all of this as I focus on three things I can hear: his voice, his breathing, and my heart beating in my ears. Three things I can see: his bare chest, his green eyes, and my shaking hands. Three things I can smell: his shampoo, his soap, his cologne.
Dammit, that helped nothing.
Well, maybe one thing did.
His eyes.
They swim with raw emotion, but not the pain or rage I’ve grown accustomed to seeing. It’s an honest vulnerability, a fractured hope. Something I don’t think he shows often, or even allows himself to feel.
And it slays me, shattering my resolve into pieces, obliterating the blooming panic into dust. “Okay,” I whisper, shaking my head as I chuckle to myself with disbelief that I’m giving in. Again.What is it about him that makes walking away so hard?“Okay, I’ll stay.”
“Yeah?” His mouth tilts into a soft smile, so very un-Jagger-like, but it’s the lingering worry and fear that twists my heart.
I shake it off. I’m staying, but I can’t get dragged under by him. “For the weekend,” I remind him. “Though why I need to stay when my apartment is two streets over, I don’t get?”
He hums low and soft, gripping my hips, pulling me into his warm, bare chest. Making me forget my name because he makes me stupid when he touches me. “But my bed is here.”
“Thought you said this wasn’t about sex,” I tease just to prove to myself I still have some sense.
“It’s not. I sleep better when you’re next to me.”
“It didn’t seem like it the other night.” He tenses and chills run down my spine as I think about the way he seemed utterly paralyzed, and the disgust in his eyes when he finally snapped out of it. It just gives my theory about abuse as a kid more substance. The thought rolls my stomach, but more so, it enrages me.
“It was still one of the best nights’ sleep I’ve had in years.” He laughs when I lift a doubtful brow. “Trust me. Now, come on.” He twists us until I’m walking backward to his bedroom. “Time to get showered. I have lots of plans for today.”
“Hold on, my guy. You literally just said this isn’t about sex.” I don’t mention that it’s a little uncomfortable walking right now, and as amazing as his dick feels, I’m not sure I could go on for tonight’s performance if we go again.
