I nudge David’s knee with mine. “Your jeans, David.”
Nothing.
I could just leave them, but he can’t be comfortable—drunk or not—and he sleeps in his underwear half the time anyway. I undo his belt buckle, my fingers hesitantly hovering over his fly. I’m no less aware of his hard-on than I have been all night, and his zipper lays right over the culprit. I swallow hard and undo the button, then slowly and carefully slide down the zipper pull.
David sucks in a sharp breath, but his eyes still don’t open, even as I battle his jeans down his hips without the benefit of him lifting his weight to help me. I’m nearly out of breath by the time he’s in just his T-shirt and boxer briefs, and if David hadn’t told me how much he hates sleeping in a shirt, I would just let it be.
I blow out a long-winded sigh and grab the hem, trying not to gawk as I carefully peel it up inch by inch to reveal abs carved to perfection. I’m wondering how to get the material over his broad shoulders when he sits up suddenly, hooking his arm around my waist, and I yelp in surprise as he hauls me onto his lap, our bodies completely flush. Need flares instantly, burning me everywhere his skin touches mine. His eyes lazily flutter open, dazed and confused, as if trying to deduce between dream and reality.
I can do nothing but sit here like a fool, rendered useless by the shock of desire as David’s free arm reaches for the material at his nape. He yanks his whole shirt off in one not-so-smooth motion, its pass up and over his face seeming to uncloud his eyes from that dreamlike glaze.
David doesn’t say anything, and I couldn’t if I wanted to. We both just stare.
He licks his lip, and I swallow audibly.
And then he’s casually and calmly laying back down, except he doesn’t release my waist. He pulls me right with him, urging me to curl into him, and my body complies automatically before my brain can even process what’s happening.
I don’t dare even look up at David to see if his eyes are open or closed, and when I try to shift to give us a little space, his arm tightens around me to keep me in place.
So I give in.
I rest my head on his shoulder, my arm on his chest, and for the first time in my life, after all these nights in his bed, I sleep in David’s arms.
* * *
I’m startled awake from a familiar dream, featuring David and me doing things no quasi-siblings should ever do. My body is still on edge from my own fantasy, and it takes me a minute to realize David’s clean scent mixed with about a barrel and a half of whiskey isn’t actually my imagination.
We’re in bed, but we’re not sleeping on opposite sides. And then last night comes crashing back, and my heart rate takes off at warp speed.
David may have fallen asleep on his back, but he’s rolled onto his side to face me, and I seem to have burrowed into his chest like it’s my own personal pillow. His arm is wrapped tight around my waist, ensuring our bodies are as close as possible, and I’ve hooked my leg around his in my sleep. And the worst part is, I don’t have it in me to untangle myself from him.
His lips are so close to my forehead that his breath heats my skin, and it isn’t until I finally look up that I even notice he’s not asleep, either.
Somehow, in the dark, in the cocoon of his body, everything feels different. Less real. More real.
He can’t be fully sober yet—I don’t think I even am—but there’s something present in his gaze that wasn’t there a couple of hours ago.
“What happened?” he rasps, his voice gravelly from sleep.
What happened? Does he not remember wrapping me in his arms? Or worse—kissing me?
I pull back an inch and start to straighten my leg, but his hand shoots down to my thigh to stop me.
“Don’t,” he says, low and hoarse, and I stop breathing as he slowly guides my thigh further and higher, until we are even closer than before. He doesn’t stop until I can feel his impossible hardness against the most sensitive part of me—the part that’s positively aching for him—and my hands fly to his shoulders to brace myself.
David’s eyes search mine for a reaction, but I’m completely helpless. His touch is my kryptonite and I surrender to it willingly.
“You kissed me,” I blurt in a whisper. I know we’re both already awake, but there’s something surreal and intimate about this strange hour between night and day, like it’s casting some kind of spell, and all I know is I don’t want to break it.
David frowns.
“You asked what happened. Last night. You—”
“I know that, Bea.”
Bea.
I swallow anxiously, excitedly, and my hips rock gently against him all on their own.
