“Clearly.” He tugs at the fabric around my elbows, but it just suctions tighter around my head and neck, drawing a squeak from me. “Damn. Okay . . . let me . . .” Another tug but no freedom. “Wait, I have an idea. Come with me.”
And then his bare hands are gently wrapping around the naked curve of my hips, pulling me with him a few steps. I will never recover from that touch.Never.
“I think this is gonna be the trick.” There are sounds of James shifting his weight and then an acute tug at the top of my shirt. The fabric budges, and between whatever he’s doing and my wiggling, the shirt comes off.
Light floods my eyes as I reenter the world and blink into focus: James’s stomach. For some reason, I am eye level with his navel. I stare at his taut, gorgeous abdomen and the soft, subtle dusting of hair that leads down into his . . . gray boxer briefs.
James clears his throat, stepping down from the bed. “I needed leverage.”
As his feet hit the floor, he tosses my shirt onto the pile of his wet clothes and somehow it feels intimate. Not nearly as intimate as how closely we are standing in our underwear, though. Neither of us attempts to step away either. James is somewhere over six feet tall—I’d guess six-three—and I’m right at five feet. So that puts me level with his collarbones.
My greedy eyes want to explore the mostly naked man terrain in front of me, but I keep my gaze pinned there, on his right collarbone, so pronounced I could drink water from the divot between bone and shoulder muscle. My heart is something wild, jumping in my chest, and for once I don’t think it has anything to do with my lack of sex but has everything to do with themanwho is creating this reaction.
James breathes out and I feel his breath against my forehead. “Do you”—my gaze drops to James’s hand, flexing and then tightening at his side—“have some clothes somewhere?” he says, and this is when I realize his voice sounds odd.
I look up only to find him with his chin in the air, eyes pinned to the ceiling.That gentlemanly son of a bitch.
“James,” I say on a laugh. “You don’t have to look away. I’m not shy either.”
He nods thoughtfully, pressing his lips together, but doesn’t look down at me yet. “Yeah.”
“But you’re not going to?”
“Nope.”
“Because you’re afraid you’ll be overcome with desire when you see me in my plain gray cotton bra and panties?” The sarcasm in my tone is undeniable.
“Yes,” he rasps, and the seriousness of his tone is also undeniable.
Suddenly, I have never wanted anyone to look at me as much as I want him to. Which is a dangerous line to walk.
And yet . . . “Here I thought you were a cowboy, turns out you’re a chicken,” I whisper.
I watch a tiny smile crawl over his mouth before his eyes slowly scrape down to lock with mine. The powerful set of his jaw tells me he’s exercising all of his will to keep them pinned on my face.
I don’t know how to handle this mounting tension. I want both to throw myself against him and to resist it with everything in me . . . because James is easily the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to mess up a single bit of what we have.
No matter how sexy he looks in his underwear.
So with a willpower I didn’t realize I possessed, I lean around James, shoulder brushing the scalding skin of his torso, and snatchthe oversized shirt off the bed. Hewatchesas I slide it on, the cotton fabric falling slowly over my chest and hips and landing against my thighs.
“Nice shirt,” he says, tightly—because it’shis.The one I stole and will never return.
I can sense his desire coiling around me like a python as his eyes eat up the sight of me wearing something of his.
“You next.” It comes out breathless.
He strides over to his backpack, crouches, giving me the most achingly beautiful view of his lean, muscular back as he digs around, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. He tugs them both on, glides his hand through his damp hair, and makes a ta-da gesture with his hands.
We’re both clothed. We deserve trophies.
James clears his throat. “Should we get some sleep?” he asks, and I am going to need him to stop giving me that crooked grin and bedtime voice or else I will combust.
Whendid James Huxley become irresistible? When did he morph into the standard against which I judge all other men?
“Sleep sounds good.” I hate sleep.
He nods. “I’ll take the couch.”
