Aside from cursing myself for not owning cuter pajamas?
“Yeah, I’m okay now.” I reach for the best available option—a shorts and tank set. Except you can see my nipples clear as day through the thin pink fabric, so I tug the closest available hoodie on over top.
“You don’t have to be okay,” he says. “Remember?”
I sink onto the soft mattress next to him, tucking my feet under my butt. Our knees briefly collide when he turns to face me, and the most simple of touches reignites the fire in my core that burned for the entire drive home earlier.
And I’m not lying when I say, “Iamokay now. Truth.”
“Did you keep my hoodie for the last decade?”
I gulp, embarrassment creeping from my belly up to my chest and neck.Yes,I kept his hoodie—hoodies,technically, because I have a number of sweatshirts and T-shirts tucked away—but I wasn’t anticipating him noticing.
Denver flicks the wet ends of my hair over my shoulder to check the small logo printed on the front for confirmation, and the dimples in his cheeks pull me in. “Should I tear apart your closet and see how much of it technically belongs to me?”
He moves like he’s going to stand, and my fingers wrap around his thick bicep. “Stop. It’s a good hoodie. That’s the only reason I kept it.”
“God, you are theworstliar I’ve ever met. I remember lending you this sweatshirt, and you said it was a complete waste of pocket space because you couldn’t fit your hands in the pocket with your mittens on. You complained about it all winter, yet kept wearing the damn hoodie anyway.” He toys with the pocket’s edge, and the way I feel his hardened hands through the tattered cotton makes me wish I hadn’t worn it—or anything—to bed at all. I’m tempted to stretch my arms above my head, test him to see if he’d touch my bare skin.
“You got me. It truly is a terrible hoodie. The hood is abnormally small, too.” I reach up, blissfully aware of his eyes cutting to the sliver of exposed skin on my lower stomach, and pull the hood over my damp hair.
“Maybe you have a big head.” He tugs the hoodie strings, staring into my eyes with a crooked smile as the hood bunches around my face. “Confirmed. Big head. You look like you’re starring inThe Shining.”
I playfully slap him on the leg. “You can have it back then, if you’re so sure it’s a problem with my head.”
Hands on the bottom of the hoodie, I pull it over my head in one swift motion.
“I doubt it’ll still fit—” His sentence is cut short when his eyes fall to my chest, Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow.
Oh right, I was wearing the sweater for a reason.
“Blair, are tho—did—uh,” he stammers, tripping over himself while practically drooling like a dog. It would be a lie to say I’m not flattered. A throatyfuckis the only word he eventually manages to get out before I step in to save him from himself.
“Yes, they’re pierced. And it’s generally bad form to stare.”
“I feel like they’re staring at me. It’s a dominance thing—I can’t look away now.”
“Told you that you don’t know everything about me anymore,” I quip.
“And I told you I want to know everything. Never been more true than right fucking now.” For a brief second, his eyes cut to mine, and I can see how hungry he is. How close this man is to becoming fully feral. How badly he wants me is painted all over his face, and it makes my thighs clench together.
“Oh, yeah?” Tuning out the warning bells and the percussion of my terrified heartbeat, I place a finger under the thin strap on my left shoulder and slip it down.
There’s a dull throb behind my pelvic bone, and I barely breathe while his eyes follow my every move. When I pluck the other strap in my fingers, his hand covers mine, helping slide the strap down my arm.
His tongue skates across his bottom lip, leaving it glistening and kissable. Shaking slightly, he rests a palm on my arm. No more than an inch from where my right breast is ready to be set free. And if my chest was anything more than an A-cup, I’m sure the pajama tank wouldn’t be enough to keep them contained without straps.
Denver’s thumb stretches to test the waters with a graze of side-boob. Getting no pushback from me, he exhales a strained, rough “fuck it.”
Within a heartbeat, my shirt’s bunched around my waist, his mouth is ravaging mine, and he’s massaging my breasts—the budded nipples pressed into his firm palms. With a needy moan I tumble backward on the bed. And he hovers over me, pulling the oxygen from my lungs through a mind-altering kiss.
I gasp for air when his lips leave mine to drag down my neck. Then his tongue glides over my skin, along my collarbone and down my chest, spreading gasoline over the fire in my core. I didn’t invite him over here intending to have sex. At least, not consciously. But all I want is for him to fill the aching emptiness I’m suddenly overwhelmed by.
He draws back for only half a second—enough to get a good look at my new-to-him jewelry and let me pull my shirt completely off—before diving back in and forcing a hoarse moan from the back of my throat. His tongue encircles each nipple like a halo, flicking over the dainty barbells and sending a jolt of pleasure through me. Feeling my body buck under him, he huffs, and the hot forced air only drives me more wild.
I grip his muscular shoulders, letting my nails sink into his flesh.I am not seriously going to come already.I shake the thought away as he flicks across my pebbled nipple again.
Oh, fucking hell.
