Page 41 of Floored

"That we did." I closed my eyes. When was the last time I'd felt this bone-deep sense of rightness anywhere other than the pitch? I was always moving, always going, always driving myself forward to fix or do or work.

Rarely did I get quiet moments of peace. The thought of ending this particular one seemed like a crime.

I barely knew her. She didn't know me any better. Yet we'd agreed we could make our own rules. And why shouldn't we?

I wasn't going to ignore how singularly perfect it felt, doing something as simple as lying on the couch with her. Admitting that, though, seemed too fast. Like she could travel along with the strange thread of my thoughts, Lia set her chin on my chest and pinned me with those eyes. Did she even realize what a weapon they were? What damage they were capable of?

My free hand traced the line of her jaw, the edge of my thumb lightly glancing along the bottom edge of her lip. What would she do if I tugged her closer and sipped at those perfectly soft, perfectly pink lips? In the growing warmth I could see on her cheeks, I had my answer. In the reaction of my body, I had clear proof of my desire. And it would be easy, wouldn't it?

But this ... I'd let her edge her toe over the line if she wanted to cross it.

That was when she inhaled shakily and set her face back down on my chest.

Right then.

I closed my eyes and willed the lower half of my body to get the fuck on board.

Voice light and easy, I tried my very best to play it off. "My body is far too tired to move you off me, though, if that's all right with you."

She sighed, her rib cage expanding underneath my palm and spread fingers.

In that sigh, I felt her hesitation to ask any further questions, and truth be told, I wasn't sure I'd know how to answer.

"I could take a nap." With that, her finger stopped its movement, and when I glanced down, I saw the fan of her long, black lashes fall closed.

Settling further into that sense of rightness, paired with a refusal to look too far into what we were doing, I allowed myself to do the same.

12

LIA

Have you ever woken up with deja vu?

I've done this before.

Not the sleeping on Jude's couch part. My back ached, and his couldn't be any better, but there we were.

Sprawled on top of his insane body, as the sun crept into the sky, I once again woke up with all my important bits touching all of his.

My leg hitched up over the top of his thigh, like I’d unconsciously tried to hump him in my sleep.

My hand had crept underneath the hem of his shirt, and I couldn't help but smile at the placement of my fingers. Apparently, embedded underneath the skin of my fingertips was a homing beacon for his happy trail because that line of hair and the soft, warm, heavily muscled skin around it had my toes curling from how badly I wanted to explore.

All of him, from the top of his dark-haired head down to his very big and very proportionate feet, was like a freaking jungle gym, and it was hard not to want to play on all the parts when I woke up like this.

Making tiny movements so as not to wake him, I turned my nose further into his chest and inhaled deeply. Was it a pregnancy hormone thing? That he smelled like crack and Christmas and cinnamon rolls and everything good that I wanted to hoard to my greedy little chest. The feeling that came with his scent, clean and masculine, was something I wanted to cling to with both hands.

It made me realize just how much I missed the easy affection of my family. The hugs. The playful shoving. Wrestling with Emmett. Someone sitting behind me and braiding my hair while we talked in Logan and Paige's kitchen. There had never been a time in my life when I'd gone so long without someone to clutch me tight in a hug or rub my back while I talked.

Just as I had the night before, I set my chin on his chest and studied his face.

It was stupid how handsome he was.

It was also stupid how much I wanted to wake him up and ride him until his eyes rolled back in his head. Maybe not stupid because we'd said we'd make our own rules for how this was going to play out, but the impulse certainly came with complications.

A subpar, clinical word for that little, teeny baby inside me (roughly the size of a raspberry, according to Sir Google). Sometimes, if my brain started racing too far ahead into the future—to all the unanswered questions waiting patiently for me to answer—my hands started shaking, and I felt very much like I was standing over a dark pit where I couldn't see what waited for me at the bottom.

It might've been a feather bed made of unicorns and sparkles, and I'd land with a gentle bounce.

---