“Does this count for being spontaneous?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DARK STRANDS SPLAYED against my chest are the first thing I see when I wake up to the sight of Ivy’s mess of hair. I’m on my back and she’s draped across me. I breathe in. She smells like me—my body wash.
I look down and see Slate, snuggled against her legs, still sleeping.
Our shower make-out session ended when the water turned cold. It was fucking freezing. She was stroking my dick with those perfect hands and we still got out. That’s how cold it was.
Getting dressed and into bed took even longer because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. There was no end in sight. Our skin was pruned, like when you spend too long at the beach. And when Ivy shivered, I put her in some of my clothes and she crawled under the blankets.
I offered to sleep on the couch or the floor, but she insisted on sharing the bed. It’s a king so there’s lots of room. We both danced around the boundary of “no sex” even after we were dressed.
I had to take care of myself last night. I couldn’t help it. I snuck downstairs and fucked my hand like a chump, needing the release.
When I crawled back into bed, Ivy nestled her face and body to my side. She gave me a sweet, soft kiss on my shoulder, and it felt like I got punched. My heart—typically made of ice and stone—feltsomething.
Before I determine the next steps, I pause. I think about this beautiful woman in my bed. She’s funny. And caring. And ridiculously attractive but I feel like she doesn’t know it. She probably has never been with someone who deserves her.
Not saying I deserve her.
What would’ve happened if she wasn’t drunk last night? Would she still have invited me into the shower? Was there a chance she’d have come back here to hang out?
Fucking hell.
This woman lives across the country. I’m getting too far ahead of myself. She has a life. Roots. And I have everything that pulls and keeps me here. She wants something that’s going to last. I definitely don’t fit into her plan.
I look at the clock: 9:30. Wow. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. To be fair, Ivy and I didn’t go to bed until after 4 a.m.
When my thoughts are this chaotic, I usually go for a run. That’s not going to work this morning. I don’t want to wake Ivy up yet, but I don’t want to leave her either.
From this angle, I can see her long eyelashes. She looks peaceful and happy, draped across my chest. I hate myself for being so sappy, but it feels like she belongs here.
Last night was comfortable. I wasn’t second-guessing myself and everything just felt right. Even when she brought up my tattoo for Hazel. She let me deflect and there were no other questions asked.
My brain happily replays parts of last night as I lay with Ivy. I’m thinking about our tangled limbs, kissing her naked body while being partially clothed, her little moans. Also, I’m going to never forget the vision of her in my shirt and shorts. For fuck’s sake. She can wear the hell out of some gym shorts.
But what I’m most surprised by is wanting to tell her about Hazel.
It also terrifies me.
When 10:30 hits, I’m no longer able to be in this bed. Ivy has shown no signs of waking so I do my best to get out of bed without jostling her or Slate. The last thing we need is Slate to start barking.
I’m able to be stealthy enough to get downstairs without waking either of them. I fill Slate’s bowl with food and start a pot of coffee.
Caffeine is always the answer.
Next is breakfast so I throw myself into cooking. Can’t go wrong with pancakes, hash browns, and bacon after a night of drinking.
I’m about to wake Ivy up when she pads down the stairs with Slate close behind her. When he sees me, he prances over for some pets before inhaling his food.
Before Ivy sits down, she wraps me up in a hug. I’m afraid to move or scare her off. She kisses my cheek and then sits down.
Seems like she’s still interested when she’s sober.
I pour her a mug of hot coffee. She cradles it with her hands, like it’s precious, and blows on it.
“Good morning,” I say with a level voice—trying to gauge if she’s hungover.
