It doesn’t take long for the steady beat of his heart under my ear and the hypnotic brush of his hand along my spine to lull me back to sleep. The nightmare is gone, and for once, it doesn’t come back.
Two heavy weights pin me to the mattress when I drift back to consciousness—one over my hip and the other across my shoulder and arm. I open my eyes to get my bearings, only to see unfamiliar olive drapes framing a bright blue morning sky.
Confused, I look down my body to see that it’s not some supersized weighted blanket plastered over me, but two very tan,veryfirm body limbs belonging to one Dallas Beaufort Gamble. I’d know that scar on his right knee anywhere. A light dusting of hair covers both his arm and leg, the latter thrown over my hip like I’m a horse he’s attempting to mount.
My first thought is that I don’t hate waking up like this.
My second is that I must be an idiot, and I need to get my ass out of this bed as soon as humanly possible. This is a road my head does not need to be going down, especially after that nightmare—and also given that I might have myself a stalker waiting on my front porch this very minute.
Oh-so-slowly, I slide Dallas’s arm off my shoulder and begin to flatten onto my stomach to inch away. But before I gain even a millimeter, the arm that was a limp, dead weight a mere moment ago curls around my waist and pulls me back into the hard body behind me.
And hard he is.
Everywhere.
Holy shit!
Dallas groans in his sleep, his hips flexing forward and his aroused dick nestling itself between my ass cheeks like it just received its own engraved invitation.
Dear Dallas’s Dick,
The honor of your presence is requested at your earliest convenience.
Location: Between your best friend’s thighs
Attire: As little as possible
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath before freezing in place. I track his breathing to make sure he hasn’t woken, all the while ignoring the hardened state of my nipples and the fluttering of all parts down south. I can’t help it if my lady bits are all sluts.
Newly determined, I twist onto my stomach and carefully slither my way out from beneath him. But the man’s thigh is as heavy as a Buick, so my legs get trapped while my top half slides off the side of the bed until I’m supporting my weight with both hands on the hardwood floor.
“Fuck,” I repeat in another whisper.
Blood is pooling in my head now, so I do the only thing I can and jerk my knees forward in one quick movement. The move works, dislodging my legs from beneath Dallas. However, the force propels me forward where I complete some crude version of a somersault and land flat on my back, limbs splayed and pride a little worse for wear.
So, of course, that’s the moment Dallas’s scruffy, sleep-softened face appears over the edge of the mattress. “Mornin’, Sweetness.” His grin is lopsided to match the laziness in his tone and the tangled mess of hair atop his head.
I open my mouth in the hopes that a perfectly snarky comeback will magically spill forth, but before my tongue can even begin to form a word, Dallas points a finger at my tank top and shoots me a casual, “By the way, your tit’s out.”
I proceed to go into cardiac arrest and die on his beautiful hand-hewn wood floor.
Not really, but I consider it.
“This towel has a tag on it,” Ryder announces twenty minutes later as he descends the staircase wearing yellow swim trunks and nothing else.
I’m sipping coffee on one of the industrial barstools at Dallas’s kitchen counter. The whole place screams Dallas Gamble with its homey wood beams and masculine industrial touches. It’s rugged, warm, and full of character all at once. Just like the man who designed and built it.
“Come here,” I beckon to Ryder as I stand from my stool. “I’ll cut it off.”
He pads over on bare feet and watches while I locate a pair of scissors in the junk drawer and remove the offending tag. Tags are a big NOPE in Ryder’s book, as are seams on socks and scratchy fabrics. I’m actually surprised Dallas let the towel tag slip by him. He’s always right on top of the vile things.
“All fixed.” I hand the towel back with a grin. “Now, how about those blueberry pancakes?”
“I already had cereal. Dad said we’d do pancakes tomorrow when I don’t have practice.”
“Oh,” I respond in surprise. “Okay then.” Is this part of Dallas’s ploy to get me to stay for more than one night?
“Shoot! I forgot my goggles!” Ryder tosses the towel on the counter and scurries back upstairs, uncombed hair flopping with each step.
