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Chapter 538
Chapter 538:
Bending forward with slow, deliberate care, he draped the heavy cashmere over June’s sleeping body, making sure it covered her bare feet.
He was just about to straighten up and step back.
Earlier in the evening, June had drawn a fluffy white angora throw pillow against her chest, seeking comfort in its soft texture without quite knowing she was doing it. Now she shifted on the cushions with a low, incoherent murmur. Her right hand slipped out from beneath the blanket, releasing the pillow, and reached upward into the empty air, fingers grasping blindly at nothing.
Easton instinctively extended his hand to guide her arm gently back under the warmth of the blanket.
But before his fingers could reach her wrist, her hand dropped.
Her fingers landed squarely on the front of his bespoke white dress shirt. She grabbed a fistful of the crisp cotton fabric and held on.
Easton’s entire body went rigid.
Her grip forced him to stay bent over the sofa. Their faces were suddenly inches apart. June exhaled slowly, and her warm breath — carrying the sweet trace of champagne and the sharp bite of gin — brushed directly against the sensitive skin of his neck.
His Adam’s apple moved.
A dark, dangerous heat ignited in his eyes. The blood roared in his ears.
𝘠o𝘂𝗋 𝗱аi𝗹𝗒 𝖽о𝘀е 𝗈𝖿 𝘯𝗼𝘷𝖾𝗅𝗌 о𝘯 ѕ.𝘤o𝘮
“June,” he whispered. His voice came out rough, stripped completely of its usual smooth composure. “Let go p>
He reached up to carefully pry her fingers loose.
Instead of releasing him, June pulled her arm backward.
The sudden force knocked Easton off balance. His chest dropped softly against her shoulder, and June turned her head, pressing her warm cheek directly into his chest. She rubbed her face slowly against the cool mother-of-pearl buttons of his shirt and let out a small, utterly dependent sigh — the sound of someone seeking warmth with no awareness of what they were doing.
“Snowball…” June murmured, eyes still closed. “Don’t run away p>
Easton went completely still.
The realization arrived like ice water. Her alcohol-dulled mind had confused the crisp cotton of his white shirt — layered over the fading memory of the fluffy pillow she had just been holding — with the soft fur of her Angora rabbit.
A bitter, helpless smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
But the physical reality of the moment was dismantling what remained of his composure. Her cheek was pressed into his chest. The warmth of her skin burned through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was accidental, entirely unconscious intimacy, and it was tearing through his self-control like paper.
His hands hovered in the air above her. They trembled slightly.
He couldn’t stop himself.
Slowly, agonizingly, he lowered his right hand and laid his palm flat against her back, resting over the cashmere blanket. He began to pat her back in a gentle, steady rhythm — careful and unhurried, the way one might soothe a frightened child back to sleep.
“I’m not running,” Easton whispered into the quiet room. The words came out like a confession he hadn’t meant to make. “I am right here p>