Is he just going to… sleep in his suit pants?
That sounds miserable.
I focus on that thought instead of the one that wants to keep creeping in. That maybe he’snotsleeping in his suit pants.
But then what about a shirt?
I can’t offer him one. Not Dad’s. Not mine. And even if I could, my shirt would sit on him like a crop top, and those abs would be out. That interesting V that sits on his hips and narrows, like a big arrow pointing to his big—
I huff out a breath.
Don’t go there.
So, he’ll be shirtless.
And I will be in a tank top that is practically a suggestion and shorts that might as well not exist. Even more so because I’m so wet, they might actually dissolve.
In the same bed.
My bed.
My big, ridiculous bed that I love more than I love most people.
Dad bought it for me the year I moved into that apartment with Maddy, just off campus. He surprised me with it, like it was a normal thing to do, spending that kind of money on a brand new mattress for his daughter. I cried when it showed up, and that made him happy.
It was stupidly huge in my bedroom in that apartment. And when I moved home, it came with me and swallowed three-quarters of my room.
I didn’t mind.
I still don’t.
I love it. I love stretching out in it. I love not feeling trapped. I love the space.
And now Nico Conti will be in it with me.
I keep looping.
Nico in my bed.
My tank top.
His bare chest.
My shorts.
His arms.
Possibly his legs.
The way his hand feels when he reaches for me—firm and sure, like my body is something he already knows how to handle.
Which he does. And so damn well.
Sitting next to him on the couch earlier was torture.
Actual torture.
His thigh brushing mine under the throw. The heat of him. The stupid little touches that weren’t touches—an elbow, a shoulder, the way our hands almost met when we reached for the same spoon.
