She shifts closer, just shy of touching my back. She pokes her finger into my spine, and it takes every ounce of self-control for me not to react, but somehow, I manage to remain still.
She pokes me again, harder this time, then yanks at the blanket I have tucked over my shoulder. Tightening my hold, I curl in on myself defensively but remain silent as I continue to feign sleep.
She shifts around, but instead of poking me, she shoves her hand between my side and the mattress, effectively yanking the blanket free where I had tucked it beneath me. A rather triumphant sound falls from her lips, but the triumph is quickly replaced by frustration when the blanket comes loose, but there isn’t enough of it there for her to cover herself.
Smiling into the dark, I listen to her cursing my name but then she stops wiggling around and falls silent, and I bracemyself for her next move. I wouldn’t put it past her to put a foot between my shoulder blades and bodily shove me onto the floor.
But she doesn’t resort to pure physical violence, instead choosing to press her front against my back, one arm reaching beneath the blanket, effectively anchoring herself to me.
Her palm presses against my chest, her front presses more firmly against my back, and I have to stifle a groan as I realize she’s nude.
She shifts around some more, her breath against the back of my neck, her legs curving behind mine, moving some of the blanket so she’s at least partially covered.
Unable to reasonably pretend to be sleeping, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Well,” she responds with another exaggerated shift of her body. “Since you’re a blanket hog I’m just doing whatever I can to not freeze to death.”
“I’m not a blanket hog.”
“My current position proves otherwise.”
I don’t say anything, mostly because there isn’t anything for me to say, but mostly because I know it will irritate her.
“Come on, Rafferty,” she whisper-shouts, her hand on my front pulling firmly. “Help a girl out. I’m freezing.”
Ignoring her plea, I pull the blanket more tightly, attempt to roll further away from her as I respond, “That’s what you get for being late to bed.”
She laughs, but says nothing, and I can tell from the silence that she’s plotting something. I move to curl into myself further, but I’m a few moments too late, and the next thing I know her hand has moved from my chest to my dick.
My obviously interested in the nude woman squirming around behind me dick.
Her hand grips tightly and I grunt, “Fuck,” my body turning instinctively as she uses my appendage as a modified steering mechanism.
I attempt to use my shoulder and bent arm as a shield to push her back, but she manages to slip beneath it, her head coming up to rest on my shoulder as if I meant for her to do that. As if that spot and position is reserved for her and she has a right to it.
I make a half-assed attempt to extricate her from my person, but she doesn’t budge other than her hand on my dick squeezing then releasing, her fingertips brushing along the sensitive tip before settling on my lower stomach.
She settles in, one of her legs hooking over my thighs. I turn my leg slightly, creating a cradle that stabilizes her position, my free hand releasing the blanket and coming to rest near where she’s stroking the skin just below my belly button. Our pinkies touch, and her light stroking shifts to the back of my hand, then my fingers and back again, as if she’s learning the shape of me in the darkness.
I’ve rarely been in this position before, usually finding it to be suffocating and uncomfortable. I haven’t had any type of significant romantic relationship since I was old enough to make a clear distinction on boundaries I wasn’t willing to cross. Managing to avoid long-term relationships and the deep intimacy that comes along with them, was never an issue given my schedule didn’t allow for much, and I was always clear from the start on where each dalliance was going.
Nowhere.
But now, here I am.
Under a contract that has no mention of cuddling.
Annoyed, I consider forcing her onto her own side of the bed; however, I recognize that doing so would only highlight the fact that I’m uncomfortable. Which would then turn into a discussion on why something as innocuous as warming up myfuture bride would throw me into a tailspin, a conversation I plan on having—never.
Choosing to do my best to fake it until I make it, I clear my throat. “I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight.”
“Oh it was a blast,” she replies, and I can tell from her tone she means it. Then she adds, “Declan’s family is a breath of fresh air.”
“Yeah, if you like the smell of stripper sweat,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I respond tersely, not even bothering to keep the petulance from my tone. “Glad you had a good time.”
