Page 52 of Elusive

Chapter 18

Sutton

Would it be a helluva lot easier if I think her stubborn little scowl is adorable? Yep, the odds are good. If I didn’t find it precious how she ensures that I hear her huffs and catch every dramatic roll of her eyes as she stomps around to get me a blanket and pillow, yes, my life would run a lot smoother. And if the few side-glances she tries to hide, a begrudged ‘thank you’ buried deep therein weren’t encouraging… sure, it might be in the realm of possibility to consider giving up on an us. But where’s the fun, the challenge, the fought for and earned victory, to whom goes the spoils, in taking the easy route?

Not that I have a single option or say in anything, because I do, I so fuckin’ do, think everything about Presley Alexandra Beckett — from her stunning beauty, sharp, clever wit and effortlessly sexy side to her snarky, vulnerably defensive other side — is positively hypnotic. No fighting it; it just is.

In spite of one’s plans, ideals or, perhaps shortsightedness, sometimes, if they’re damnlucky, that certain someone is placed directly in their path… and things just… click. A someone who calls to them, in an instinctive voice, unique and undeniable. So color me one very lucky bastard, because that’s Presley — my click — on a molecular level.

“Sutton, hello? I know you’re not sleeping standing up, your eyes are open. Ignoring me isn’t your style either, so, where ya at?” she asks, and since her hands are full, kicks me in the damn shin to get my attention.

It works, snapping me out of my thoughtful haze with a laugh… because again, only Presley can manage to make kickin’ the shit outta ya cute. “Allow me, Beckham.” I take the heap from her arms and set it in the chair. “Where ya want me to sleep?”

“At your own place.” She doesn’t hesitate a lick to quip back, flashing me her sassiest grin.

Seems they were right — I do have a “condition” — ‘cause sure enough, a rumble starts building from deep in my chest as I prepare to unleash my redirect, but she stops me short of the loud, non-negotiable, alpha-speech I had ready with a soft, beautifully distracting snicker and swat to my chest. “I know, I know, not an option. Just givin’ ya shit, tuck your growly back in. And I guess take the couch, if you can fit on it. If not...” She shrugs. “Dunno what to tell ya there, Tiny.”

“Tiny,” I scoff, “will figure it out. You beddin’ down now, relaxed enough? If not, we could talk, or watch some TV if you’re still amped up.”

Her teeth toy with her bottom lip and there’s a single, slight and quick, shift from one foot to the other before she responds. “I’m good. Going to bed. Night.” She spins and starts toward her room even faster than she just gushed out that poorly-veiled lie.

“Hey, Hot Shot?”

“Yeah?” She stops walking but keeps her back to me.

“Now that I thought about it, realize I’m stilla lil’ keyed up. You mind chattin’ me down? I can’t go from twelve to asleep on a dime.”

“Fine,” she huffs and pivots, making ever-sure to top-off the performance with one of her signature eye-rolls. “Damn, you’re high maintenance. Alright, Sutton, get tucked in, all nice and cozy, and I’ll tell you a bedtime story,” she ribs in a babyish coo.

“‘Preciate it.” I hide my knowing grin as I make up a bed on the sofa, then… stand there, debating. Can’t say as I’ve been to a whole lotta sex-free sleepovers, but I’m guessing I probably shouldn’t strip down, so I drag-ass taking off my shoes and socks, hoping she gives me some guidance. And as always, she doesn’t disappoint.

“Sutton, you don’t have to sleep in your clothes. You’re already gonna try to somehow fit on that couch,” she snickers. “No sense adding more discomfort.”

“You sure?”

She grins and bobs her head. “Seen it all before, Stud, and I’m not feelin’ real jump your bonesish, so you’re safe.”

“Jump your bonesish?” I repeat on a laugh, yanking my shirt over my head.

“Yep, it’s a thing.” Her tone’s changed, to a feathery whisper, and her eyes… they’re deadlocked on my bare chest, filled with conflict — desire fighting uncertainty, impulse battling willpower — forcing me to make the decision for both of us. I stop unbuttoning my fly… sleeping in my jeans.

“I’ll be good like this,” I speak abruptly, lying down on the couch even faster, contorting my way through a useless attempt at getting comfortable. “Hey,” I reach for her hand, giving it a gentle shake, “not gonna watch you stand. Here,” I drop one leg to the floor, “have a seat.”

She feigns annoyance — I often wonder if it’s become habit or if she still has to consciously remind herself to do so — but betrays her own act with how quickly she crawls into the space I’ve created. Once she’s situated, I pull my leg back up, and wrap them both around her. “There ya go, snug as a bug.”

“Snug as a bug?” It’s her turn to parrot me. “What man even knows that phrase? And analyzes song lyrics? Sutton, if you weren’t a big-ass mountain of muscle, with a Harley, truck, and sexy tats, whose dick I know first-hand is fully functional, I might be forced to tease you about your sensitiveside.”

“Tease away, Hot Shot. I’m pretty secure in my man-stance.”

“Guess I would be too if I were you. Secure in my man-stance,” she laughs.

“Yep, it’s a thing.” I grin, but not because of my catchy comeback. No, my happiness is due solely to the fact that although unaware, she’s relaxed against me, burrowing herself in snugly. “By the way, thanks for the ‘fully functional’ shout-out.”

“Ahh, does someone need his ego stroked?”

“You’re snuggled in between my legs, all sleepy and sexy, talkin’ ‘bout my dick. Don’t need a damn thing stroked, but… maybe don’t use that word again, Sugar. Only so much a man can take.”

And just like that, I pushed too far. Her lazy lids fly open and she jolts upright, catapulting herself over my leg and off the couch as if the damn thing’s on fire. “You got your chat, I’m going to bed now. For real this time. Night.”

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