"It's my stage once the concert starts," I added, nodding.
Maya's presence was a comforting warmth against the cold I'd felt only seconds earlier. I hadn't realized the warmth was missing in this place until that moment.
"Thank you for sharing it with me," she said.
We lay there together, letting that be enough.
"You think you can sleep?" I asked.
She nodded. "You?"
This time, I nodded.
"Let's get some sleep?" she asked, like there was a shot in hell I didn't plan on tasting her again before morning.
But then she yawned, so I knew I should let her rest first.
"Yeah," I said.
Swear to fuck, she purred.
Then I carried her to bed, pulled my wife into my arms, and let myself savor my new reality.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
MAYA
Of course, Sloan's comfortable bed wasn't a surprise. The guy definitely embodied a comfortable life, what with all the flannel.
His desire for comfort wasn't ever in question. No, his investment in high thread count sheets was the surprise. Honestly, I expected comfy flannel sheets. That seemed more on brand for him.
But nope. He had one-thousand-plus thread counts of the good stuff. I could respect a man who invested in good bedding.
I pressed my face into the pillow and inhaled the scent of Sloan.
Things were quiet up here in the mountains. Too quiet, given the number of bugs and deer hanging around outside.
Still, Sloan's even breaths and my tossing and turning were the only sounds. Sometimes I'd hear the low buzzing of an insect, but it didn't get close, so I didn't worry too much. Only a little.
No street lights. Not even a porch light to break through the inky darkness—Sloan had flicked that off earlier.
My hangover was long gone, but those ZipZings were no joke. There was no way I would sleep after four.
He slept soundly beside me with a look of innocence that was totally unfair, because dear Lord in heaven, the man knew how to use his body to please mine.
Flipping on my back, I stared at the shiplap ceiling.
I should get up.
It might be the middle of the night, but I wouldn't be getting any sleep. So, yes, I should get up. Of everything I knew, this was the most certain step. Cautiously, not to make the floorboards creek, I rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the shower.
His bathroom was small but functional. A guy clearly lived there, because while tidy, it wasn't spotless. The little hairs on the edge of the sink would drive a person nuts after a while. And though the room was utilitarian—lacking the little touches of someone who would appreciate it for more than simple everyday use—I wouldn't change anything about it.
Blowing out a breath, I showered, then I headed downstairs to the kitchen to see if Sloan had some ice cream, or chocolate, or even cookies. I hit pay dirt behind the expired bag of Doritos in the cupboard in an unopened box of Oreos.
The expired Doritos gave me pause—who didn't finish them before they expired? And the unopened Oreos? Sacrilege.
I peeled the blue cellophane Oreo bag open and grabbed a cookie. I bit. Then I spat.
