“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I’m still only in a towel, my shoulder is fucking killing me, and my blood is pumping so hard through my veins, I’m not sure how I’m meant to just lay there.
“Not much in the mood for good ideas right now,” She gives me a small smile. “Please?”
I search her face for a hint of hesitation, but right now her eyes are clear, her expression relaxed. She isn’t hiding, even if she is keeping her secrets close to her chest.
“Are you sure?” I press.
“I don’t want to be alone,” She answers. “Please.”
I reach for the sheets tangled around her legs and unhook them before I bring them up and cover us both. She turns to me, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. “Is this okay?”
I nod mutely.
“Good night, Dean.” Her eyes close, and I do the same, not expecting sleep to come for me so soon. It never does, and yet I close my eyes, and I don’t remember opening them even once until morning.
Chapter Twenty-one
There’s something hard under my hand, but I’m in that space between sleep and wakefulness where I’m not sure what is a dream and what is reality. It’s warm, and as I move my hand up, I feel a rough texture, like coarse hair, but I can’t figure out what it is. It feels good under my fingers, so I keep moving my hand, running my fingertips up and down, finding bumps and valleys to explore.
I’m so warm, cozy even, and I really don’t want to wake up. Snuggling in deeper, I keep touching, reveling in the new feeling and figuring it’s just a really vivid dream and it can do no harm. I know my alarm is due to go off any minute, so these last few moments in bed are sacred. I slept well, better than I have in months, even after the nightmare and being woken by Dean.
Dean.
My eyes spring open. It’s not a figment of my imagination; it’s a real body beside mine. A real body with rolling abdominals and hair smattered across his chest and trailing from his navel downwards. It’s not just dips and valleys, it’s the contour of his stomach, the hard work he’s put in to define the muscles into carved marble.
I don’t dare move my body, just my eyes, to find myself resting on that spot between his shoulder and his neck, my hand tracing lines on his stomach and chest, and good fucking lord, he’s only in a towel. The knot holding it together looks loose, like a slight twist will have the edges falling apart.
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
The previous night rushes back with clarity. The nightmare, Dean waking me up, him seeing the scars on my hip, me asking him to lie with me.
Oh fuck!
I’m frozen, my hand resting on his sternum, heart pounding inside my chest.
“Easy, Butterfly,” Dean’s rasping morning voice startles me. “It’s okay.”
“Okay!?” I stammer. “How is this okay!?”
But despite the words, despite knowing this is so far from okay, I’m surprised I haven’t been fired already, I don’t move.
“Did you sleep?” He asks instead.
I open my mouth to argue, not expecting that question, and then snap it closed. “Yes,” I eventually answer.
“Then it’s okay,” He says.
Still, I don’t move.
He has his uninjured arm tucked around me, fingers splayed across my ribcage above my T-shirt, and his heart is thumping beneath my ear.
My fingers twitch on his stomach, tracing the dip down the center of his torso, and I feel the muscles quiver. His breathrushes from him, and the hand resting against me squeezes, the sensation of his fingers pushing into me running something warm through my veins. My thighs begin to ache, a knot forming in my lower abdomen that makes my core clench.
I tilt my head up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with my eyes before lifting higher, finding his dark eyes already on me. My fingers curl harder against his abs, scoring his skin with the tips of my nails, and a breath hisses through his teeth, the hand on me tightening even further. I like the sound, the way he responds, so I do it again, letting my fingers drag down the bumps of his abdominal muscles, and his dark eyes roll closed, head tipping back enough that the muscles in his throat go tight. I run my hand so low on him, my fingers find the trail of hair at his navel and follow the path until it hits the knot of his towel.
“Sloane,” His voice is all gravel with a hint of warning.
