Page 36 of Caught from Behind

And then he’s turning off all of my alarms, tossing my cell in the direction of his.

“I—”

I don’t finish that thought—not that I have any clue what it might have been.

Because he’s climbing over me.

And then everything inside me realigns.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Riggs

For a second, she freezes and I half expect her to stop me from moving over her, halting to ask me if I’m okay, if I know what I’m doing when it comes to this.

But even as her lips part and I can practically see the question bubbling to the tip of her tongue, that plump mouth closes, curves up at the edges instead. “Is that five in the morning every day?”

“Not after a game,” I say, attention wavering because now she’s stroking a hand down my bare chest, drifting toward the button of the jeans I hadn’t taken off the night before. “Or after a travel day, but?—”

Silky fingertips sliding further south, slipping beneath the waistband of my jeans.

“Just every other day?” she asks when I don’t go on, working her hand into my underwear.

Her fingers are barely an inch away from my cock now.

Still, I don’t miss that she’s watching me carefully.

I know it’s because of last night.

But…I’m okay.

This isn’t…well it isn’t that night.

It’s morning and we’re both stone-cold sober. My head isn’t spinning and her touch doesn’t feel wrong and?—

And the sun is shining through the windows.

And I spent all night with her in my arms.

And I just learned that she’s not a morning person.

I lean down, brush my lips over her forehead, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

And…she gave me a piece of her—one she doesn’t show the rest of the world.

Bright, smart, sassy Ella gave me a tiny glimmer of the woman beneath the veneer.

Eight alarms to coax her out of bed. Super grumpy and doesn’t want to chat while yanking the covers over her head and burrowing into her pillow—when the woman I’ve known has never met a conversation she doesn’t like.

But…still Ella—or at least the Ella that I’m desperate to learn.

Her fingers wiggle, the tips teasing the head of my cock and sending it from morning wood to rock fucking hard—truthfully, not an uncommon state when I’m around this woman.

“Just every other day,” I agree, my voice a rasp as I try not to thrust into her palm, try to focus on the conversation about alarms.

And now not interested in it in the least.

Because her hand—not the one that’s so close to tightly holding my cock, but her other one—lifts, resting against my cheek, and that gentle touch steals every single thought from my brain, cock or alarm-related or otherwise. “You’re exactly what I thought you were, Riggs Ashford.”

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