Page 52 of Lace 'em Up

Immediately, his eyes hit mine.

Then slowly drift down.

Hot. Liquid.

That stare.

Or maybe that’s the space between my thighs.

But he doesn’t say anything as he inclines his head to the bathroom, voice on the right side of growl—because I feel it between my legs again—when he asks, “You done in there?”

My heart is thudding against my rib cage, but I manage to exhale, to whisper, “Yes.”

He pulls back the covers, and I find that my stare’s doing some drifting of its own, dragging over his bare chest, over the sweats that hang low on his hips.

I want to trace along the waistband with my tongue, want to…whoops and push them down.

I want…

Well, I want.

He touches my cheek and I jump, so focused on the heat blooming in my abdomen that I don’t realize he’s moving closer, that he’s near enough to hold, to stroke, to lick.

I shudder.

But he just cups my jaw, tilts my head up.

“I think it’s time for you to go to bed, princess,” he murmurs.

For us to go to bed please.

And to not sleep.

For hours.

“You’ve had a long week,” he says, voice soft, calloused thumb brushing lightly over my skin and making me shiver.

I exhale, though, table those words and just nod. “Yeah,” I agree, gently touching the bruise still forming beneath his eye. “You too.”

A called-off wedding. A rescue—or two. And now a fake engagement.

We’re going to need plenty of sleep to handle all of that.

Gentle blue eyes.

A palm flattening on my cheek.

He leans close.

I hold my breath, wish and want swirling in my belly, and?—

He drops his hand and disappears into the bathroom.

Fifteen

King

I know I should be the kind of man who offers to sleep on the floor when I come out of the bathroom ten minutes later, teeth brushed and flossed, face washed, deodorant reapplied so I don’t stink up the joint.

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