His guys were late-night partiers, and even if I’d wanted to sleep, it was off my agenda pretty much permanently, replaced by a simple grief so fresh it tended to catch me off guard at odd moments. Like my destiny had passed me by. Call it what you will, even laugh at me, but I wouldn’t care. You don’t when you connect with someone that deeply. And now that he’s here, you’re pushing him away. Or I’d at least tried. Cage was the first man in my life—the first person—to deliver on a promise. And I was trying desperately to see when the other shoe would drop and the promise would break. But I’d gotten dressed in the clothes I’d arrived in, clothing I’d let sit on a chair in the bedroom for a month while I’d wallowed in borrowed sweats and T-shirts. I’d showered too, bringing myself to a tight, quick climax that left me slack-mouthed and tingly. I’d done it like I’d known he was somehow privy to my orgasm.
