He bites his cheek, eyes downcast. “You dream about me?”
“I can’t help it.”
“No, I...” He wets his lips, picking words carefully. “I love that you do.”
“There’s the literal dreaming,” I venture. “And then, you know.” How do I say this without saying it? Oh, well. Caution to the wind. “Fantasizing. Everybody fantasizes.”
I’m starting to worry that I’ve overshared when he stares at me with a keen intensity and he says, “Can you tell me?”
“I could show you, if you’d like.”
He takes one step backward, which seems counterproductive, but I think he’s signaling that he is paying attention. “Tell me how it starts.”
“It starts with us standing in the sunroom that was going to be a conservatory but is now a café. You’ve just done an amazingly romantic thing with some clouds and it’s got me feeling all swoony.”
“Oooh, I like this so far.”
“You pick me up.”
He obliges with zeal, scooping me to his chest like a knight rescuing his princess. I think about where we are, where we could go next.
“You carry me out of the room.”
So he does.
“And we go...” My bedroom is too far. I’m in practical mode, hunting for the nearest soft landing pad. “Into the living room.”
So we do.
He lets his forehead fall to mine. “And then?”
“You notice a plaid couch,” I say, “that looks big enough for two people even if one of them is the size of Thor.”
He laughs. “All right. I’m noticing it.”
“And you say, ‘My, it’s been such a long day. I think I have to lie down immediately in this room where there is only one couch to lie on.’”
Wesley tries to keep a straight face. “My, it’s been such a long day. I think I have to lie down immediately in this room where there is only one couch to lie on.”
I grin. “You lay me onto the couch first, delicately, and admire me for two full minutes. You’ve never seen such beauty.”
He sets me down. A flash of lightning slants across his chest like a jagged blade and the emotion in his eyes steals my air. “I haven’t,” he murmurs.
“Two minutes is a long time,” I amend. “You admire me for a few seconds, then turn in a slow circle.”
Raising a brow, he complies.
“You tear your shirt up over your head.” Wesley snorts, but my expression is stern. “And you do it ferociously, with animal magnetism.”
He gamely peels his shirt off, tossing it aside.
My attention takes a leisurely stroll across all the bare skin he has on display. It’sdecadent. “You flex your arms.”
He gives me a dry look.
“You have to,” I insist. “That’s how the fantasy goes.”
He flexes, and I fall back snickering. Wesley sighs melodramatically.
