Better question—how long can I stay this way before Ihaveto?
If I have any doubts that Franco knows exactly what he’s doing, I feel his hand move from my belly to my ribs, and then finally moves to touch my shoulder.
He pushes the hair back from my face, and I feel him lift his head a little while he smooths the length of it under his head. But he doesn’t get up.
He just nestles his head right back where it was, nose resting against my hair. I feel the heat of his breaths against my scalp, and all the little hairs on my arms stand at attention. But not as sharply as my traitorous nipples do.
I suck in a ragged breath of air, the strings of attraction that connect my nipples to my core tightening to a blissful ache.
I’m almost painfully aware of his morning hardness pressing against the crack of my bottom, when suddenly he shifts his hips and moves away, putting just enough distance between us that I can no longer feel his arousal.
Damn.
I don’t know what I expected him to do when he woke, but moving away from me was the very thing I didn’t want.
When he does, though, I quickly remember that he is who he is, and I’m me.
Plain.
Nerdy.
That gift he is sporting in his pajama pants has nothing to do with me.
“We sure got cozy last night. I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.”
My body has clearly taken over my brain because before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “It’s what you promised, remember? Self-serve hugs? I wouldn’t have stayed here if the damsel-in-distress package didn’t come with spooning.”
He’s quiet for a moment and my cheeks burn hot with mortification, but then a miracle happens. Franco rolls back over and tucks his body tighter against mine. “Is that so?” he growls against my ear.
I press my bottom ever so slightly, so the raging erection he’s still sporting is back right where I want it. Well, notrightwhere I want it. It’s lined up with my butt cheeks.
My hands are itching to reach behind me and touch him, take that length in my hands and guide it where I need it most, but I stop them.
Franco groans under his breath and hisses, but he doesn’t move away.
“Thank you,” I whisper, then make the painful decision to end this agonizing teasing and roll over to face him before I really embarrass myself.
I inch myself away from his hold, not because it’s what I want—because I swear on all that’s good and holy, all Iwantis to roll him onto his back so I can mount him until I’m screaming his name. But that’s not happening.
Not now, not ever.
Instead, I give myself a mental cold shower and curl onto my side facing him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer or slept better.”
“Shit day yesterday. Glad I could help.”
“I’m glad too,” I admit quietly. “Thank you seems like not nearly enough.”
I’m suddenly feeling shy as we look at each other under the covers. The sun is starting to come up, and I can see every muscle in his bare shoulders.
His hair is messy, and the stubble on his chin is thick and delicious. Franco is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that I could lie here and stare at for hours.
“Lots to do today,” he says, shoving back the covers.
Those words remind me that this is just a friend helping a friend. A guy whose mother would guilt him if he didn’t offer help. A courtesy.
Thanks to the still-dark bedroom, I’m hoping Franco can’t see me watching every flex and stretch of his body as he gets out of bed.
I try to lower my lids so I don’t look like I’m checking out his body, but then I give in and just stare. Why not?
