Page 67 of Coming Up Roses

She finishes pulling back the covers and slides under them, completely oblivious to my dilemma. After tossing and turning for a few seconds, she finds her sweet spot, but I’m still standing at the side of the bed, staring.

“Cash?” Her sleepy voice breaks my trance, and I climb into the bed next to her. She’s close enough that I can feel her heat, even though we're not touching, and I swear on all that’s holy, this girl is it for me. If just lying here like this has me feeling like the king of the goddamn universe, I can only imagine what being inside her will be like.

My thoughts are put on hold when she rolls away from me and snuggles her ass right into me, murmuring, “G’night, Cash.”

I reach over to switch off the lamp before pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

Though I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep.

* * *

By some miracle,I manage to fall asleep—and yes, I mean it when I say miracle. Myla Rose kept her body pressed firmly into mine all night, which is why this morning is a little painful. I mean, waking up to her in my bed . . . yes, please. Every day.

As much as I’d like to stay in bed, wrapped in with her, this morning wood I’m sporting needs to go if I have any hope of surviving the day. This girl has me wound so tightly, I’d probably blow if she shifted in the slightest.

I check the time and groan at the numbers on the clock. Five thirty. But I’m too wired to fall back asleep. Slipping out from my spot behind her, I take care not to jostle her and make my way to the shower.

The hot water pours over me as I do my best to will away thoughts of her out there in my bed. It’s no use, though. The image is branded into my brain, and I’m helpless to fight it.

Even here, in my shower, her scent surrounds me. Inhaling deeply, I’m hit with a barrage of images and memories—the way her body feels pressed into mine, the feel of her soft skin, the sounds of her breathy moans . . .

I close my eyes and give in to the fantasy. I’m so caught up in it, in her, that it only takes four strokes before I’m chanting her name like a prayer, my release circling the drain.

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