Held together.
Believing that someone like George Bunsen would want to cling to me rather than turn up his nose at the idea of the unwanted Newton bastard.
I lie still, breathing carefully, as that third part of me retains control of the situation.
All the while, George sleeps.
I tilt my chin down, taking in the view of his buzzed head through the valley of my boobs. His skull has a nice, smooth curve to it. Perfectly suited for his short hair. I want to touch it. Run my hands over the sphere. Gently scratch my nails in the soft bristles.
What has you sleeping so soundly, George Bunsen?
Here, with him in a vulnerable state, for the first time I allow myself to think of him as more than the guy who wants nothing to do with me.
He’s a talented pilot.
He cares about my brother.
He rescues puppies.
He’s spending hours every week helping me chase my dream.
He literally gave me the shirt off his back.
And he has a whole life that I know nothing about. I’m not even sure what he does at BnB.
Maybe I was too quick to judge him. Maybe I’ve misunderstood the way he treated me on past encounters.
Or maybe he did dislike me in the past but has since changed his mind?
At least I know his body seems to like mine. When he’s unconscious.
And when I saylike, I mean I can feel a certain part of him also magnetized to me. The part that’s hard, hot, and resting against my shin.
How are his legs not hanging off the bed?
I attempt to lift my head without jostling George and realize that we’re lying diagonally, my head in the corner, and that he’s kind of curved around me.
Okay, so maybe my body participated in this configuration, too.
I relax back on my pillow and brainstorm what to do next. Whatever way George feels about me, I doubt he’ll be enthused to wake up in this position.
But the guy has a firm, surrounding grip on my legs. I can’t exactly roll away from him, even if he sleeps like a rock. And I’m definitely not going to try to shift myself up and out of his hold. Not when that would risk him waking up with his face smashed into my bush.
Just as I toss out that idea, George stirs. And I panic.
Today is the day I find out that my fight-or-flight response is the same as an opossum’s.
I go limp.
At least this way, I reason,he’ll never know that I know he cuddled me like a teddy bear. We can both claim ignorance.
But playing passed out is hard to do when a sleepy George doesn’t immediately grasp the situation. Like me, his half-awake mind probably doesn’t recall how he ended up where he is.
The man turns his head, not away, but fully into my chest, sucking in a deep breath as his hips give a gentle rock.
Tantalizing torture.
Don’t groan. Don’t writhe. Don’t beg him to touch every part of you.
