A slow, heady feeling swells in my chest. It’s satisfying knowing my closeness unravelled him. That I’m wanted.
I curl back into his embrace, his arm snug against me, and smile. “Good.”
46
Hidden Surprises
Lily-Anne
Warmth.
Soft, steady, and everywhere.
I surface slowly, awareness filtering in like light through fog. The mattress cradles me, the sheets smelling faintly like laundry powder and something warm and masculine.
Last night returns in fragments.
A strong arm curls around my waist, heavy and protective. His chest is pressed solidly against my back, his leg tangled with mine as if we drifted towards each other without thinking. A soft, rhythmic snore rumbles against my shoulder.
And then I feel him.
Oh.
Heat flares, pooling low in my belly. His arousal, hard, solid, and unmistakably male, pressing against me. Not by conscious choice. And yet, even in sleep, he desires me.
My heart bolts, but I stay perfectly still, barely breathing.
If I move, I’ll break the moment.
And I don’t want to just yet.
He murmurs something, voice gravelly with sleep, then shifts slightly—only to freeze a second later. His whole body goes rigid, and I sense the moment he realises how closely we’re fitted together.
No doubt remembering last night, replaying it in his mind, just like I am.
Carefully—so carefully—he withdraws his arm from my waist. Inch by inch, he peels himself away. Cool air rushes against my back as he rolls to the other side of the bed.
Then he clears his throat, low and flustered. “Lily, are you awake?”
I sit up, finding him sitting on the far edge of the mattress, his back to me. “Yes.”
“I—that wasn’t deliberate.”
“That’s alright. I don’t mind.”If anything, I wanted more.
He glances over his shoulder at me, his expression unreadable, then stands abruptly. “How did you sleep?”
“Great. You?”
He scrubs a hand over his face, hair rumpled, voice still sleep-rough. “Very well,” he says, “just not quite enough.”
Though we didn’t do anything more last night, we both wanted to. It was ages before either of us fell asleep.
He moves around the room, searching for clothes but opening all the wrong drawers first. He looks…frayed. Off-balance. It’s rare to see him anything but composed.
At the en-suite door, he pauses and glances back.
He smiles faintly, shy and warm.
