Trust (London Love #5)

He was panting a little, trying not to look at me when there was nowhere else for him to look.

“Reubs,” I said quietly.

“Get off me,” he whispered.

“I will. But first you’ll listen. Because you always let me speak, but you don’t take it in. It just rolls off you and then you either turn it into a joke or get angry with me. But that has to stop, because I’m serious about us. About you and me. We like each other. I know we do.”

I shouldn’t have said that, because he tackled me onto the floor, and I was glad his dad wasn’t home or he would have been marching down the hallway shouting for us to stop destroying his carpets or whatever we were up to.

“Reubs!” He was strong, but I was stronger, and now I had him properly held down. Nose to nose, his wrists pinned to the floor and my legs straddling him. “You’re not going anywhere, and neither am I. So you need to listen. Because you and me? We’re good. We’re really good. When I’m with you, it feels like we’re in this little bubble, where nothing on the outside is important and all that matters is you and me. We lie here in this…that very bed up there, and we hold each other and talk about things. Silly things. But it doesn’t matter because it’s just who we are and what we do. We make each other happy. If we didn’t, I wouldn’t even be here and you wouldn’t let me stay.”

“You sold your house and just moved in,” he pointed out. “And if I hadn’t let you stay, you would have pulled some other idiotic stunt and guilt-tripped me into looking after you anyway. Because that’s what you do, G. You…manipulate me. All the time. Say things that make me think that this is okay. It’s not. For the record. None of this is okay.”

“Okay,” I said softly. Because this? This we could work with. “Sit up,” I said. Quite sternly. Tugging at him. Manipulating…yes. Posing him like a ragdoll until he was sitting on the floor with his back to the bed, a scowl on his handsome face.

Kneeling beside him, I combed my fingers through my hair. Shook it out.

Bit my bottom lip.

Me? Manipulative?

He was so bloody cute when he was angry, and he knew it.

“Tell me to leave.”

God, he was stubborn. Fighting with himself from every angle.

I climbed onto his lap, very slowly put my hands on his shoulders.

“Go on, Reubs. Tell me you want me out. That you never want to see me again.”

This was…God. I couldn’t deny it. He was stunning. So conflicted. Wanting to tell me to get out so badly but then, I knew. I think I always had. From that very first time when he sat next to my bed and held my BAFTA-drunk-arse hand.

He’d stroked the hair out of my face and called me an idiot, but he’d held on to that hand.

His fingers stroked my face.

“You think you’re irresistible, don’t you,” he whispered.

“You know I am.” I didn’t mean that, but it was too tempting not to actually say it.

“I’ve never been into blokes.”

“It doesn’t matter. Honestly, Reubs. It’s just…you know. Human beings. Skin. Feelings.”

“Trust,” he said. I nodded.

“Trust.”

“I’m not ready.”

I got that, so I nodded again. Combed my fingers through his hair. Settled my nose against his. Forehead against forehead.

“That’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he said.

This? This right here? Was good. Really good.