“Then share it with me,” he says.
“Share it?”
“Yes. Put pillows down the middle if you must, but stop forcing yourself to be uncomfortable because of me.”
“Fine.”
“Thank god.”
“Ugh.” I grab my pillow and blanket off the couch.
“After you…” He puts out his hand and follows me into his room.
I climb into his bed, watching as he starts to take off his costume. “Are you kidding?” I ask.
“It’s my room. Don’t look if you don’t want to see something.”
He undresses down to his boxer briefs. I do my best to divert my gaze, but I fail—miserably—and he catches me staring.
“Like the show?” he asks, grabbing a pair of sweats off the top of his dresser.
“Shut up,” I say, turning over and facing the wall. He chuckles, and then I hear him disappear into the bathroom. A couple minutes later, the bathroom door clicks open, the lights turn out, and the mattress shifts slightly under his weight.
“Night,” he says, tugging on the comforter.
“Night,” I say, rolling to my back to try to get comfortable, but I don’t even know how we got here, and he’s so damn close to me. The kiss replays in my head, and need builds low in my belly. I shift again, this time causing my foot accidentally to brush against his leg.
“Wren,” he warns.
“What?” I ask, playfully grazing him again with my foot.
“If you don’t stop touching me, then?—”
“Then what?”
I hear him turn over, so I flip to face him too. I can barely make out the curves of his face in the dark room, but I know we’re facing each other. His breaths are steady, and I’m trying to maintain my distance, but I’m laying in bed with the gorgeous man who kissed me on top of the ferris wheel, and it’s hard.
“What will you do if I touch you again?” I ask.
I hear him take a deep breath. “You’re playing with fire here,” he says.
“What if I want to play with fire?”
He lets out a low groan as I move my foot up and down his calf.
“For the record,” I begin. “I think I deserve someone who will teach me how to cook dinner. Someone who will go above and beyond to understand my brother’s needs. Someone who will drop everything to take care of me when I don’t feel good.” I reach out and connect my hand with his arm, running my fingers along the veins in his forearm. “Someone who will stock the pantry with all my favorite things, will leave me notes in the morning, and will kiss me like his life depends on it when I’m scared.”
“Wren,” he breathes out.
“You may think you’re not good enough for me, but maybe if you stopped and asked me what I wanted…you’d know I want you.”
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
“I do mean that, and I’d like to know what you meant when you warned me to stop touching you.”
“Wren,” he warns again.
“Tell me what you meant,” I breathe out. “Please, don’t start with that self deprecating bull?—”
