Chapter 182
Aaden mumbled something about spies and spun ninety degrees, legs splayed horizontally across the bed, claiming the entire middle section as his own.
Gaston sighed. He sat up, lifted Aaden gently, and moved him to the generous open space at the foot of the bed.
He lay back down.
He was now directly beside Jocelyn.
No buffer. No child. Just six inches of sheet between them.
Jocelyn held her breath.
Gaston shifted. He turned on his side to face her. She could feel his gaze in the dark.
“Are you awake?” he whispered. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to settle somewhere in her chest.
“Yes,” she breathed.
R𝘦𝘢𝖽 𝘸𝗶𝗍𝗁o𝗎t 𝗶𝘯𝘁𝖾𝘳𝗋u𝘱tі𝗼ո𝘴 𝘰ո gа𝘭ոo𝘷е𝗹ѕ.𝖼o𝗺
“Sorry about my father,” he said. “He’s relentless.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Aaden seems happy.”
“He needed this,” Gaston said. He moved his hand beneath the pillow, and his arm brushed hers. Skin on skin.
She flinched — a jolt of electricity shooting up to her shoulder. But she did not pull away.
“Gaston?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“Yeah?”
“Why did you kiss me?” The question hung in the air between them, fragile and dangerous. “The other night. In the hallway.”
Gaston went still.
Because I’m obsessed with you. Because I wanted to burn the memory of Vance out of your mind.
“Because I was tired of watching you look at him,” he said at last, his voice low. “I wanted you to look at me.”
“Oh,” Jocelyn whispered.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was not the answer she had prepared herself for. It was not an excuse. It was a confession.
“Go to sleep, Jocelyn,” he said softly.
Silence returned. But it carried a new electricity now — something that had not been there before, something that pulled like a current in the dark.
Eventually, exhaustion won. Her eyes drifted shut.
In the deep hours of the night, when the mind lowers its defenses and the body follows its instincts, gravity won.
Jocelyn rolled toward the warmth. Her head found the crook of his shoulder.
Gaston, half-asleep, did not push her away. His arm came around her waist and drew her close, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of vanilla.
Mine, something in him whispered.
And they slept.
Sunlight pressed against Jocelyn’s eyelids — warm, golden, and persistent.
She woke slowly, carried on a current of safety she had not felt in years. She was warm. She was comfortable. Her pillow was unusually firm and, strangely, rhythmic.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
She drew a deep breath. Sandalwood. Musk. Man.
Her eyes snapped open.
She was not hugging a pillow. She was draped over Gaston Collins like a human blanket — face buried in his chest, one leg thrown over his hip and tangled with his, her hand resting directly over his heart.
And his arm was wrapped firmly around her back, holding her there.
Hot, sharp panic surged through her. She scrambled backward.
“Gah!” she gasped, nearly pitching off the edge of the mattress.
.