Page 61 of Winning Brynn

Brynn is screaming. AndI'd love to say it's because we're both naked and my dick is inside of her, but no. She’s having a nightmare.

Wiping my bleary eyes, I shoot a glance at the baby monitor to check that Salem is okay then swing my legs out of bed, tiptoeing down the hall to Brynn’s room.

She is still lost in her dream when I crack the door open and pad over to the bed. Though the screaming has stopped now, she's writhing as she fights against something, her bare legs twisted in the bedsheets, chestnut hair spiraling in disarray around her face.

"Brynn?" I whisper, curling my fingers gently around her wrist.

She doesn't wake up, doesn't stop fighting either, her limbs punching out in all directions, narrowly missing my nose. Without thinking, I climb onto the bed, scoop her into my arms, and hold her in my lap. "It's okay," I soothe against her hair. "I'm here now. You're safe."

And just like that, her body sags against me. It's immediate, the way she calms down. And though this isn't the first time it has happened, I'm mystified by how easily it seems I'm able to comfort her while she's sleeping.

Even when her eyes blink open and find mine staring down at her, she doesn't startle, as if she knew I was here already, like she was expecting to find herself in my arms, my presence having found her in her dreams somehow.

"What was it this time?" I ask gently, a teasing smile on my lips.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes but making no move to get off my lap. I guess she's comfortable where she is. Truthfully, I'm not in any hurry to let her go either. It's startlingly natural, how it feels to touch her like this. Even if it does make my dick ache like a motherfucker and force me to recite the first fifteen digits of Pi to avoid poking her in the butt with my raging boner.

The point I'm trying to make, though, is that I like her right where she is.

"I was trapped inside a goldfish bowl."

Ah. Apparently, she wasn't fighting at all, then. She was swimming.

"Must have been a tight fit," I offer in response, because what do you even say to that?

Not that, apparently.

Her glare turns lethal. "Are you calling me fat?"

"What? No!"

"Kinda sounds like you were."

I'm an idiot.

"I promise, I wasn't. I was thinking more about the size of the bowl, rather than the size of... well, you. I wasn't thinking about your weight at all, actually. 'Your weight.' I feel like that suggests I think there's something wrong with it, which there isn't. There isn't anything wrong with anyone's weight, really, if you think about it. As long as you've got your health and happiness, who cares about your weight? Apart from assholes on the internet, obviously, and—"

"Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking."

"Right." I clear my throat and shoot her a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

She shakes her head, her lips tilting into a small grin. "You’re adorable."

I am many things, a Herculean record-breaking goal scorer with size fifteen feet and a six-inch dick circumference for one, but adorable I am not.

Reaching up, she lays a soft hand on my naked chest. Her palm, so warm against my skin, burns an electric current straight through to my heart. It's so disarming that I forget all about her "adorable" insult, my mind lost to the sensation of her touch, the heat of her hand, the overstimulation of having her so close yet not close enough.

I want her beneath me, naked and writhing.

I want my hands in her hair and my lips on her neck as I push, inch by inch, inside of her.

I want to feel her shudder around me as I make her come undone, and I want so badly to see the expression on her face when I make her fall apart.

Fuck.

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