Page 95 of One Wrong Move

He really does remember everything.

Silence settles over the darkened room. I don’t know what time it is, but maybe going to sleep isn’t a bad idea.

But I don’t feel tired.

I feel too animated, like there’s a live wire running straight through me.

Across the bed, I hear Nate’s soft and steady breaths, and feel his unnatural stillness.

“Are you tired?” I whisper.

“Not particularly,” he murmurs back. “Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I think it would be a good idea.” I pull the cover higher up, almost to my chin. My hair is still damp from earlier, and now that the warmth of the shower has bled out, the cold is pressing against my scalp. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

“Drafty. Just like it was in the eighteen-fifties.”

“Hater,” I whisper back.

He chuckles. “I could go look for more blankets.”

“No, it’s fine. The bed will heat up soon enough.”

“Mm-hmm. It should.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

There’s a beat of silence. “No. I’m really not.”

“Oh.”

Silence again, and then he sighs. Shifts closer until the body heat radiating from him is too delicious to avoid leaning into. “Come here. Get warm.”

“You’re sure?”

His reply is a hand on my shoulder, turning me on my side, and then the slide of his tall body as it fits neatly behind mine. That same hand then moves down to my hip, stopping there.

“Yes,” he says against my neck. “Is this okay?”

He’s warm and big next to me, and I wiggle closer until we’re touching from calf to shoulder. “God yes. You’re so warm.”

“Told you.”

His heated breath fans against my neck. I reach up and push my wet hair to the top of the pillow, needing more of his warmth. His hand on my hip feels large and scorching, and with me not wearing pajama pants, just panties, his ring and pinky fingers rest directly on the bare skin of my thigh.

That tiny touch feels volcanic.

For a few long minutes, we lie like that. Touching everywhere, and neither of us any closer to relaxing. I wriggle a bit, trying to sink further onto the pillow and nearer to the body at my back.

“Still not tired?” Nate murmurs. His breath ghosts over the shell of my ear, and the pressure from the hand on my hip tightens. Just slightly.

“Trying to get there.”

“What do you usually do at home?”

“Read a book,” I say. “Or… sometimes…”

“Use the vibrator you bought,” he states.

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