We are tangled up like we’ve been taking comfort in each other’s bodies for years.
We are not just sleeping; we’re sleepingtogether.
That we is me…me…and Franco Bianchi.
The man who grumped at me the first time we met. Who glared at me across the table through the entirety of my first family dinner.
The weight of Franco’s thigh tossed over mine makes me start to sweat. Electric heat sparks beneath my sleep shorts, and I want desperately to rub my thighs together, but I will not budge.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, but that just makes it worse. The entire bed smells like him. How did I not notice this last night? Yes, I was traumatized and terrified, but I think I could solve all my financial woes if I could just bottle up this scent and put it on the shelves in my aunt’s bookstore.
I’d have to call the fragrance Franco, though, because a name like “Italian Working Man” would give off all the wrong vibes.
Okay, it’s official. I’m losing my mind.
Last night, I climbed into bed with a man I hardly know, who I thought sort of hated me. Now, I’m lying here wide awake and afraid to move because I don’t want to leave the cocoon of comfort and warmth that this man has freely given.
The hard part, and this sobers me up and shoves me halfway out of my sleepy cocoon, is that he’s going to wake up and boot me out of his life, probably any minute now.
Deep sigh.
After this morning, I’ll cling to this memory for a very long time to come. I hope my vibrator is ready for the floodgates of frustration to open.
I shift a little under the weight of his thigh and scold myself for getting whipped into a lusty frenzy from the smell of his darned sheets, when something happens to correct my thoughts on the matter entirely.
The hard part isn’t going to be leaving his bed.
The hard part is actuallyinhis bed.
Behind me.
Pressed against my bottom in a way that makes my body do more than just tingle.
My nipples flare to life, tightening into needy, achy peaks. I have to practically bite through my lip to stop myself from thrusting my hips back against him.
How?
How, how, how is this even my life?
I realize in a panic that maybe he isn’t asleep, and all the fidgeting, snuggling, and smelling I’ve been doing have, um, woken him up.
I mean, it’s not like he is in this situation because of me. Certainly notforme. It’s a normal thing that just happens to guys in the morning, but my brazen cuddling is no doubt sending the wrong message.
Or is it the right message?
I don’t know, but before I can think myself into a state of absolute distraction, the hand on my belly tightens and a voice caresses my hair. “Mornin’.”
I freeze.
The blood in my body slows down, and I stiffen.
He’s awake.
Conscious enough to say words. And his hand hasn’t moved, but something south of his waistband twitched a little.
I’m sure that wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part. “Good…morning,” I whisper back, debating whether to play dead, but deciding against it.
I mean, how the hell are we going to pull ourselves apart from each other?
