Last night, he looked and felt big.
Somehow, this morning, he feels bigger.
“Morning, baby,” he rasps into my neck, voice gravelly and deep enough to drag goosebumps across my skin. “Keep moving like that, and I’m not gonna be able to let you out of this bed.”
“Morning,” I squeak, because I can’t get a real word out. Part of me is nervous about waking up here, and the other part is shamelessly curious about what he’ll do the moment he realizes he’s still holding my tit like it belongs to him. Because it does.
His fingers squeeze, slow and deliberate, before going still.
“That’s my breast,” I whisper, breathy, like I’m confessing something scandalous.
“So it is.” And instead of letting go, he squeezes again, thumb brushing across my nipple just enough to make my breath stutter.
“You have perfect tits,” he mumbles against my neck, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Do you… like them?” I ask, shockingly needy.
“Obsessed,” he answers without hesitation, like he didn’t have to give it any thought.
Heat floods through me.
“And your legs,” he adds, his nose brushing through my hair. “And your dimples. When you smile at me, the rest of the world fades away. You’re beautiful.”
He’s always called me beautiful, but now I see it differently. Raw, unfiltered truth instead of just casual affection.
“I’m not beautiful,” I argue softly, every nerve tingling under his palm as he moves his hand down the curve of my waist.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had in my bed, Erika.”
I huff out a snort because, come on—Eleanor Vigoro, the Eagles’ assistant coach, exists, and she’s flawless.
“What about Eleanor Vigoro?” I ask, jealousy slipping off my tongue before I can stop it.
“I wouldn’t know what her bed looks like,” he says simply. “Never had her in mine. Haven’t been with anyone in a very”—his fingers flex on my hip—“very long time.”
I wiggle my ass deliberately, testing him, and he reacts instantly, gripping my hips with a low warning growl.
“Don’t,” he mutters.
“Something is poking me,” I say, far too innocently.
“He’s thrilled you’re here,” he deadpans.
I turn my head, arching into him, pressing back deliberately into the hard heat nudging me. “It’s just morning testosterone. Physiological reflex,” I mumble, trying, and failing, to sound clinical. “It’s not me.”
“It’s absolutely you,” he says, voice so sure, so intense, it sends a shiver down my spine.
Then he sighs like it physically pains him. “I need to get up to take my parents to the airport.”
“You should probably get moving then,” I tease, because he hasn’t shifted at all. “And maybe handle your… situation in the shower.”
His grip on my hip tightens. “Now that I know how soft you are, and how good your tits feel in my hands…” His voice drops to something wicked enough to melt steel. “I will imagine it’s your hand instead of mine when I jerk off this morning.”
My pulse races. “You’ll think about me?” I breathe.
He cups my face, fingers threading into the back of my hair, tilting me toward him. His eyes are dark, hungry, unguarded.
“I think about you constantly,” he says, voice low and rough with honesty.
