Christ, does he have to sound like that before coffee?
I hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of everything.
The way my hair must look—wild and tangled.
The fact that I definitely didn’t wash my face last night.
My mascara is probably smeared halfway down my cheeks.
I squirm a little.
He tightens his arm around me.
“What’s that for?”he asks lazily.
“I probably look terrible.”
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest and into my back.
“Honey,” he says, brushing his nose along my shoulder, “you look gorgeous.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious as a heart attack.”He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can see my face.
His eyes are still heavy with sleep but locked on me like I’m something precious.
“Having you in my bed, flushed and pink from sleep and good sex, not to mention gloriously naked, is one of my favorite fantasies.And now here you are.”
My stomach flips.
“You say the craziest things,” I whisper, closing my eyes because a part of me doesn’t know how to absorb words like that.
A part of me still waits for the punchline.
His fingers brush my cheek, gentle.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replies.
I open my eyes and find him still there.
He’s still J.T.quietly destroying all my doubts simply by being himself.
He’s not teasing.
He’s not smirking.
He’s just… looking at me.
Like I’m some miracle he happened upon by accident.
He pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin, and I breathe him in.
Remnants of last night’s cologne still clinging to his warm skin.
It’s something woodsy and expensive.Something male and entirely him.
I want to let it drop.
