You can learn a lot about a person by being around them long enough.

For instance, I know that Preston likes to wear dark colors as opposed to light. He thinks social media is a stupid diversion that’s designed to turn everyone into sheep. And he doesn’t like to show off his impressive math skills.

When the lady at the checkout counter handed him the receipt at the store earlier, I saw his eyes narrow momentarily before he stuffed it in his pocket. When I pressed him about it in the car, he handed it to me and said the total was off by three cents. I thought he was mistaken, but after he went upstairs for the night, I took out my calculator and fetched the receipt out of my purse.

In the battle of man vs. machine, it turns out that man is smarter.

If that man is Preston.

Thing is, I can think of at least a dozen people off the top of my head who would have complained and caused a scene.

Not Preston, though. He prefers not to be noticed and left alone.

I’m still thinking about the damn receipt as I toss and turn in bed. So much so that I’m wide awake when I hear a loud grunt followed by the sound of the headboard banging on the other side of my wall.

I’m seriously regretting taking the other guest room instead of my childhood bedroom now. Listening to Preston jerk off isn’t the soundtrack I want to listen to before I go to sleep every night.

I thump the wall with my hand. “Can’t you do that in the shower like every other married guy?”

Turning in bed, I place a pillow over my head, trying my best to drown it out. When that doesn’t work, I decide I’ve had enough.

Stomping to his room, I prepare to let him have it. But what I see when I open the door makes my heart bottom out.

Preston’s not riding the solo train…he’s violently tossing and turning on the bed.

I guess we have something in common after all.

Nightmares.

His face is contorted in pain and the muscles in his neck are straining like his body’s in the middle of a storm.

My heart’s in my throat as I approach. “Preston.”

I go to place my hand on his shoulder, but he bolts up so fast I stumble back.

His eyes are wide and frantic as he looks around the room, like a feral animal who’s about to be trapped.

“It was just a bad dream,” I whisper, and he jerks his head in my direction.  

I take a tentative step toward him and he shifts to the edge of the bed, his harsh stare tracking my every movement.

He looks so out of sorts right now my heart breaks.

“You’re okay,” I say when I reach him. “It was—”

His arms fasten around me, his hold is so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet.

Whoa. Dread coils my insides. I don’t know what’s going on, but something is seriously wrong.

“Kit.” He says my name like a prayer he’s begging me to answer.

I clutch him tighter and he nuzzles the crook of my neck. “I’m here.”

A tremor zips through him and my hands bracket his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. There’s so much turmoil etched on his face, a knot forms in my chest. I wish I could siphon all his pain into me.

But mostly? I wish he would tell me what’s wrong so I could find a way to save him from whatever demons he’s keeping locked up inside.

“Tell me how to fix this.”

He catches the tear streaming down my face with his thumb. “You can’t.”

“Let me try.”

A breath shudders out of him and he maps my lips with his, inhaling my every exhale like he has to breathe me in to survive. “Make me forget for a little while.”

It’s like the tiniest ray of light shining through the darkest of clouds. “Deal.”

Faster than I can blink, he crushes his mouth against mine. His kiss is angry and vicious. A predatory sting that’s meant to punish me for caring. “You really want to place that bet?”

The ominous note in his voice sends a shiver up my spine, but I’m not backing down. I’ll play his game if that’s what he needs. “Yes.” I kiss his jaw. Then his cheeks. “Raise.”  

I’ve never played poker, but I know that’s one of the terms.

Those long fingers of his spasm as he slips them under my shirt, causing every nerve ending of mine to vibrate in response. “Rule number one, Bishop. You should never place a bet without knowing the stakes first.”

I gasp when he tugs my bottom lip between his teeth and his tongue slides inside, hungry and greedy. “And if you raise, you have to set the new stakes so your opponent can decide whether to fold or call, got it?”  

I nod.

“Good, because it’s a new round.” His teeth nip at my collarbone. “Are you in or out?”

I’m trying to follow along, but he’s not playing fair. “In.”

A husky groan rumbles in his throat and his eyes darken with arousal. “Me too. I have a damn good hand.”

My cheeks flush when I look down at my puckered nipples through the thin fabric of the white Henley I’m wearing. Given I don’t have a bra on, there’s very little left to the imagination.

Eyes locked on me, he undoes the first button of my shirt. “Stay in or fold?”

My insides swoop when the second button pops open and he presses a soft kiss to my skin. “In.”

I suck in a breath when he undoes the third button and runs his calloused knuckle down my cleavage, watching me intently. My heart is beating so loud in the quiet room it nearly echoes.

A low, strangled grunt leaves him. “Raise.” He tugs on my shirt, and the fourth button goes flying.

I’m torn between wishing there were more buttons…and being thankful there were only four.

The tip of his finger grazes the underside of my breast. “Call or fold, Bishop?”

Blood whooshes in my ears and I swallow hard. “C-call.” I clear the nerves from my throat and try again. “Call.”

Tension in my core tightens when his mouth hovers over my nipple. So close it hurts. “You can still fold.”

My thighs tremble. “I don’t want to.”

He looks up at me with a dirty smirk. “Then what do you want?”

“I want...” I don't recognize my voice. It's so thready and urgent. “Please.”

God, I'm a mess. A desperate, shivering mess.

His breath tickles my nipple through the fabric of my shirt, teasing. “You want my mouth here?”

I whimper, unable to form cohesive sentences.

“Want me to taste them?”

My pulse explodes when he gives it a little flick with his tongue.

“Suck them?” He closes his mouth around the bud and lures it into his mouth.

The wave of pleasure has me digging my nails into his shoulders. “Preston.” My moan is guttural when he sucks harder and my hand goes to the back of his head, urging him on. “Please don't stop.”

A growl leaves him and his fingers dig into my hips. “Bishop.”

I know that tone. It’s my warning. But as usual, I don’t listen.

Instead, I raise. “All in.”

In one fell swoop, he slides his hands under my ass and hauls me onto the bed. The look on his face as he crawls up my body and settles between my legs is devious, like a thief who's spotted his next target.

He cups one hand around the base of my neck and walks his fingers across my collarbone and down my chest, drawing out my anticipation so much that when he finally moves my shirt over and exposes my breast, I nearly come undone from that alone.

“Fucking perfect.” He keeps his gaze on me as he plumps my tit in his hand and draws my nipple into his mouth, taking greedy pulls; this time with no barrier. It’s just his tongue, and my skin, and a million nerve endings firing off by the nanosecond.

The air between us crackles and I cry out, needing more. More of whatever this is. More of us. More of him.

As if reading my mind, he shifts, lining himself up with the achy spot between my thighs. Pressed against me, his cock is heavy and thick. Not something I can ignore. Heat sparks and my eyes flutter closed when he starts grinding, my body waging war with itself.

Ripples of pleasure slash through me when he grips the headboard and thrusts. “You’re soaking my boxers, angry girl.” A deep groan rips from his throat and he repeats the movement, the friction sending me into a tailspin.

His hips meet mine with a hard slap and he runs the tip of his nose along my neck, inhaling me. “I need to be inside you.” His voice is so rough it scrapes across my skin.

The organ currently tethered to him stops cold, but I give him a nod.  

I can do this for him. I can close my eyes and push through it.

Pretend I’m your puppet. Use me and pull my strings.

Take whatever you need from me to make it better.

I try to keep my shaking in check as I raise my hips and he slides my shorts off.

His breathing turns staticky when he zeros in on the damp spot on my panties. “Fuck.” His eyes are molten, and his voice is laced with so much want my insides coil.

Which makes what he does next downright bewildering. “I can’t do this.”

For a moment, I think he’s joking, but he gets up from the bed. “I can’t fuck you.”

I should be relieved…but I’m not. My lungs feel like he wrung them out. I’m short of breath, struggling for air.

My throat jams up when he goes to the closet and throws on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. The same clothes he bought just hours ago.

I sit up, covering myself. “Did I do something wrong?”

I don’t know what guys like. Or what they don’t like. Maybe I did or said something that was a turn-off.

He shoves his wallet in his pocket and looks at me. “No. I did.” For a moment, I see a flicker of something cross his expression…but then he’s gone.

Leaving me to drown.

Because he’s the one who made me fall.

But he didn’t catch me this time.