Tension knotted through my neck and shoulders when the glass door behind me slid open. But it was just Manson. His hair was still disheveled with a sheen of sweat across his bare chest. Jess had left long scratches on his arms, and the sight made my cock twitch again, but I was too tired for round two.

“How is she?” I said.

“I think we fucked the sarcasm out of her, for now,” he said, grinning as he held up his hand. I passed him the cigarette, reading what he wanted easily. “She’s getting cleaned up in the bathroom, changing into something comfortable.”

“I can walk back to the house. You can take the car when you’re ready.”

“Come on, man.” He gave me a look before he brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. “You’re dropping. You shouldn’t be by yourself.”

Dominant drop was what he meant. That intense feeling of guilt and exhaustion that could hit you after an intense encounter like the one we’d had. But it wasn’t just the dopamine suddenly leaving my system that made me want to take off.

I didn’t stay after a fuck. Ever. My policy was to hit it and bail. I wasn’t a gentle guy, so sitting and talking, “decompressing,” all that soft shit? It wasn’t for me. Putting space between Jess and I was for the best. We had our arrangement and her debt to us didn’t involve getting any warm and fuzzy feelings about each other.

“You know how it goes,” I said, taking the cigarette back as he offered it. “I’m not the guy you want around when everyone is feeling vulnerable. You can take care of her.”

Manson made a disapproving noise, but I was being honest. What the hell did I know about this shit? The closest I’d ever come to a normal romantic relationship was with him — and even that I knew I wasn’t great at. I could swing from hot to cold and back again within the space of a week, but he knew me too well to be bothered by it.

At least, I didn’t think it bothered him. He’d never said anything about it. When I needed space, he gave it easily. When I needed to give up control, I trusted him to take it.

But I didn’t need softness. I didn’t need intimate, quiet moments.

That was what I told myself anyway.

My dad had been a man-up-and-take-it type, who would rather beat his sons into toughness than offer a shred of compassion, and Mama hadn’t been much better. Gentleness wasn’t just a foreign concept; it was fucking uncomfortable, like trying to have a conversation in a language I only had an elementary knowledge of.