Please.Stay. They’re the only words in my foggy mind, like a skipping record. Please. Stay. Stay. Please.
His hand feels so big in mine, engulfing it in his warmth. A squeeze for reassurance.
“Okay.” One word. That’s all he mutters, but it’s enough. I release his hand and finally give my body over to sleep.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up feeling both too hot and too cold. The throw blanket I’m using is insufficient for all-over warmth, yet my jeans are stifling. My brain feels foggy and I’m confused. Why am I still wearing jeans? Why am I not under my comforter?
I shimmy out of them and fling them to the floor with a thud. The throw is gone too, likely having slithered down to the floor in all my wiggling, but I don’t need it now. I scooch the comforter down just enough to slide under it, and the cool fabric against my skin is soft and welcoming. The hazy part of my brain takes note of the different feel of the sheets, the denser pillow under my head, butthen the haze thickens to a full fog and I’m lost down the rabbit hole of exhaustion once again.
Sunlight streaming through open windows draws me to the surface like a moth to a flame. My eyes are squeezed shut, but the light feels blinding all the same. Red spots pop behind my eyelids like little fireworks. Why is the sun torturing me? I have blackout curtains for this very reason. I throw an arm over my face to block it out, not yet ready to wake up.
Something else needles at my subconscious despite my attempts to ignore it. No, not something—someone. Someone with warm, bare skin pressed against my own. I register the legs first, tangled with mine. Then the heavy weight across my midsection, holding me in place where I lie on my back. I remove my arm from across my eyes and squint, watching as the form beside me takes shape in perfect clarity.
Wes is asleep on his side, wrapped around me with a contented look on his face. He’s relaxed, no lines or worry marring his flawless features. It’s unfair how beautiful he is.
My eyes drift lower, noting that he’s shirtless. Oh so very shirtless. His torso is a work of art, etched and chiseled from hours spent in the gym or on a surfboard. Someone should sculpt this man. Though, no matter their skill, they’d never get it right. Each defined muscle, the pink puckered skin of his scar, every detail. I want to trace them all, and not just with my fingers.
I squeeze my eyes shut again.Jesus.
I chalk my straying thoughts up to the fact that my best friend’s half naked body is pressed against my side and I have very little self-control before my morning coffee. That much is clear when I open my eyes and continue my perusal of his body. His arm is slung across my abdomen, possessive in how his fingers dip around the side of my waist. The muscles of his abs flow into an impressive V that disappears below the waistband of his—wait, is he wearing only underwear right now? Must be, because there is no second waistband in sight that would maybe, you know, belong to a pair of pants or shorts.
At this very opportune moment, my brain reminds me that I took off my own pants last night in a fit of exhaustion and discomfort. So, here we are. Both very nearly naked and pressed awfully close together. Wes’s hand rests between the wide band of my thong and the white fabric of my cami, which has ridden up to my ribs in my sleep. The soft hair of his forearm, with its sinewy muscles and veins, tickles across my stomach and sends a shiver down my spine.
The subtle movement causes Wes to stir, just enough for his hand to tighten on my waist, pulling me closer to him. Warm, so warm, and the hard lines of his body press solidly against mine—
Oh my god. Is that…? That cannot be what I think it is. But one more slight press of his hips into my side and a quick glance down tells me thatyup, it absolutely is.Breathe, Joss.This is completely normal male behavior. He’s sleeping. It’s morning. This has nothing to do with me. Or my body being the one he’s pressed against. Just a natural reaction. This is fine. Totally fine.
Except, my body is reacting to his body reacting and I. AM. NOT. FINE. The heat in my cheeks is nothing compared to the inferno raging through the rest of me. I’m going to combust at any moment if I don’t extricate myself from this man. Like, now.
I can do this.
An image of a magician yanking a tablecloth out from beneath dishes flits through my mind and distracts me from all the other thoughts in my head. Good, that’s good. Okay, quick like a magician. I tense, ready to pull away, only to find myself tugged onto my side, facing Wes instead. His arm is banded around my back now, my chest pressed to his. My hand braces against his shoulder as his leg slides between mine, entangling us further.
I have to bite my lip to stifle a groan, or is it a moan? Hell, what’s the difference? He’s doing this on purpose, right? There’s no way he’s still asleep. I study his face, looking for evidence that he’s messing with me. But no, his breathing is even, unlike mine which is fast and shallow, matching my heart rate.
What do I do now?
I need to move away. Seriously, I need to doliterallyanything other than continue to lie here getting hot and bothered. Because Iamgetting hot and bothered. But I don’t and, like it has a mind of its own, my hand moves from his shoulder up to his neck to tangle in the curls there.Stupid, traitorous appendage.My nails scratch softly at his scalp and a rumbly growl escapes him that I feel all the way to my toes. I trail my gaze to his face. His eyes are open now, locked on mine, and even though they’re heavy with sleep, the heat in them burns me to my core.
His hand flexes on my hip, over the band of my underwear. “You’re not wearing any pants, sweetheart.” His voice comes out gravelly, either from just waking up or from desire, I can’t be sure. He keeps his eyes pinned to mine, not looking down to where our lower bodies lie exposed, the comforter having shifted somewhere along the way.
“Neither are you,” I whisper, glancing down to where our bodies are pressed together.
“Eyes up here, Grey.” The command snaps my eyes back to his. “We already know you like what you see. Now tell me, do you like what you feel?”
His leg shifts, and with how it’s bracketed between my own, I feel that movement everywhere. How does he have the power to electrify my body this way? It’s like watching lightning arch and arc through the sky during a thunderstorm. It originates in one spot but branches out, lighting up everything in its path. I’m the one moaning this time, and he chuckles darkly, air puffing against the top of my head where it’s level with his mouth.
“Is that a yes?”
I can’t find words for everything I’m feeling right now, so a nearly imperceptible nod is the best I can offer. He leans his forehead down to meet mine, eyes squeezing shut, restraint evident in the tension pulling at his neck and shoulders. I feel every small flex and movement under my hand and reflexively squeeze at the back of his neck. He’s holding himself back, and part of me understands why—I’m doing it too—but the other part of me wants to beg him to let go, consequences be damned.
“I want to touch you.” His words are a growl through clenched teeth, making everything in my body tighten. The tension between us pulls taut like a bowstring, my self-control an arrow against it, the timbre of his voice making it quiver, ready to fly.
“Can I touch you?” Each syllable is pained as his lips move to my neck, just below my ear. Not quite touching, butsoclose. “Please, Joss.”
It’s not his playfulGreyor endearingsweetheart, but my real name. And the reverence with which it’s said breaks the last vestiges of my control and sends that arrow sailing.
“Wes.” It’s a plea for him as I tighten my grip in his hair. His eyes, blue and churning with desire, meet mine once again, but he doesn’t move to touch me.
