George, unaware of my inappropriate pondering, taps to start the first episode, then reclines against his pillow, his attention on the screen. I’m sure I won’t be able to stop thinking about how close the two of us are in this bed, both one piece of clothing away from naked.
But then a B-17 attempts to land in winds gusting at dangerous speeds, and I lose myself in the story.
As the credits roll for the first episode, I reach out and tap to start the next one without asking because I can’t risk him telling me no.
George doesn’t protest. No, he just slips out of the bed, revealing an unobstructed view of his shapely ass in red—RED—briefs, melts my brain by popping the caps off two more beers, and returns to my side. He hands one drink to me, and I clutch the booze like a lifeline until I let the show pull me back in.
Around the fourth episode, the excitement of the day catches up with me, and my eyes droop, my body sinks into the mattress, and I lose track of the world.
When I wake up, however many hours later, light filters around the patchy curtains, and there’s a heavy weight on my stomach.
And it is definitely not a Bible.
Chapter
16
Sleep eases awayfrom me in a pleasant drift, unlike the normal jerk to wakefulness I experience when Grumps jumps on my bed to inform me that if I don’t take him out soon, he’ll make my life hell.
So cute. So evil.
My weighted blanket feels extra warm and cozy today. Plus, it smells divine.
Is that a new detergent?
All of these are the half-ponderings of a drowsy mind. I enjoy hovering on the edge of sleep, fully ready to slip back into it before a grouchy dog intrudes on me.
But the unfamiliar rumble of a truck just outside my bedroom has me frowning.
Who is driving a truck on our road? We’re a dead end.
Then I blink my eyes open to spy an unfamiliar ceiling with a large, brown water stain.
And I realize the thing bearing me down into the mattress isn’t the weighted blanket I got for fifty percent off at Marshalls.
It’s a man.
A George Bunsen.
The events of the day before rush back to me as fast as the rain came on. The plane, the puppy, the diner, the storm, the last room, the wet bed, my damp clothes, him giving me his shirt.
The shirt that is currently bunched around my hips, which means other than the blanket over my lower half, my entire downstairs is exposed.
And George is awfully close to that downstairs.
At some point, he must have put aside his phone and the book propping it up. Then—while he was sleeping, I’m guessing—he gravitated toward me. But he’s not just close.
This guy is trying to meld himself into me more than Buttercup did.
His head rests just below my boobs, his cheek on my rib cage, exhales warming the fabric that stretches over my stomach. His bare shoulders peek above the covers, but underneath the blankets, his arms—that’s right, both of them—fully wrap around my thighs.
At least he’s holding my legs closed, so I’m not aiming my bare vag at him.
Part of me is mortified by this position we find ourselves in.
Part of me is horny to the tenth power and looking to capitalize on this position.
And another small part of me—the one that is exhausted from years of going all-in on survival—wants to stay here forever. Held tightly.
