Page 81 of My Wild Horse King

I want to huddle under the covers and cry. Only, would he see that as some kind of invitation? I feel like Gustav is some kind of game I did not get the rules to interpret. Also, in movies that I’ve seen, men and women in the same room do sometimes just tear clothing off one another after a long glance, and. . .

I shake my head.

That’s not what is going on. I’ve gotten confused. He’s a wealthy, smart, professional man who knows we’re just stuck here for a night, and he respects me enough—but wait. Does he respect me?

He should at least be afraid of me.

I can turn into a horse.

Yes, I’ll be fine. What’s wrong with me?

He’s out of the bathroom shockingly fast—men must not do half the things we do in the shower—and I still haven’t even claimed a side of the bed. Although his pajama pants are dark and perfectly respectable. . .he’s not wearing a shirt. I mean, he’sholdinga shirt, and he’s in the process of putting it on, but it’s not on yet. There’s so much perfect, smooth, almost shining skin on display that my brain just quits working. While he stretches the grey t-shirt out, shifting it to slide his arms inside, I stare, transfixed. His skin isn’t totally dry yet—tiny droplets of water cling to the side of his left chest muscle, his neck, and his shoulder. One droplet on his stomach slides, slowly, down his abdominal muscles.

Which areglorious.

I can’t help swallowing.

Not that he can see me. He’s pulling the shirt over his head, and the muscles in his stomach all seem to be involved in that one movement. They’re rippling, and instead of focusing on the six defined muscles right there in the center of his stomach, I’m stuck looking at all the things at once. I suppress a shiver and blink repeatedly before he pulls his shirt all the way down to make sure he doesn’t notice how shamelessly I’m gawking.

I need to get it together. He’s putting the shirt on, not taking it off.

My plan was to just ask him which side of the bed he wants, but there’s no way I can even say the wordbedright now. He didn’t even seem to notice that I’ve been staring at him. No, he goes right along his merry way, whipping a clean towel outward, and laying it down on the floor near the bathroom.

Wait. He’s doing what? “What—uh—whatcha doing with that towel?”

He freezes. “Did you want this one for the morning? I figured if we each reused our towels, I could spread this extra one out so I’m not just lying on the carpet. It doesn’t look the cleanest.”

“You can sleep in the bed,” I say.

“I’m certainly not watching you sleep on the floor.” He picks the towel up and folds his arms, the little white towel clearly inadequate as any sort of bedroll for someone his size.

“We can share the bed,” I say. “It’s not like I’m going to attack you or something.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “But wouldn’t that make you uncomfortable?”

I shake my head.

“So you’ve slept with a guy before?”

My heart races.

“I mean, have you shared a bed before?” Now even Gustav looks uncomfortable.

“No.”

“I’m a bit heavier than you,” he says. “So when the mattress looks like that.” He points.

It doesn’t look very thick.

“You may roll toward me.” He brings his hands together, palms flat, and I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to be between them.

Suddenly, sharing the bed with him seems like a monumentally bad plan. I can’t even look at his hands without wanting to slide in between them. I’m clearlycracked. “All that sliding around sounds like it would be annoying. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor. I’d fit on the towel better than you would, anyway.”

He sighs. “Alright, let’s just try it and we’ll see.”

“What will we see?” What’s wrong with my heart? It thinks we’re about to be in a footrace or something.

“How bad the mattress is?” He arches one eyebrow. “Or, not? Are we back to the towel?”

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