Page 22 of Sharing Shane

“Fuck,” he muttered.

She wore some kind of oversized T-shirt as a nightgown, and it was big enough that it had slipped down to bare her shoulder and the upper curve of one breast. Her hair was tousled, as though she’d tossed and turned a bit before falling asleep, and her breathing was slow and deep. Her lips were parted, little puffs of air escaping on every exhale so one wayward lock of dark brown hair fluttered in the light breeze.

She exhaled again, this time with a little rumble of sound that had to be the cutest snore he’d ever heard. And fuck a damn duck, she still smelled like peaches and sex.

He stared down at her, hands on his hips, and considered his options. One: he could leave her there and take the bed. He shook his head, rejecting that notion with barely a consideration. He was not going to take the only bed, and that was that.

Two: he could climb onto the couch with her. Also not an option, he realized. Though it would make his point, climbing into bed with a woman without her express consent violated his ethics. He wouldn’t want some stranger climbing into bed with him unannounced and uninvited, and he wasn’t about to do it to someone else.

Three: he could wake her up and make her move. It was clearly the most ethical option, as he wouldn’t need to touch her or engage with her physically, but it would also get him a fight. And he wasn’t in the mood.

Four: scoop her up, carry her to the bed, then take the coldest shower possible. Questionable, ethically speaking, as it would require laying hands on her while she was asleep. And if he knew her better, door number four would be his choice. But he didn’t like touching a woman when she hadn’t asked for it, so he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

He sighed. Option number three was the clear winner, but man, he didn’t like it. Stalling, he looked around for his duffle bag, rolling his eyes when he saw she’d plunked it down on the bed. He picked it up and carried it into the full bath, then went back to stand next to the couch.

He cleared his throat. “Veronica.”

She didn’t stir.

“Veronica,” he repeated, louder this time. She wrinkled her nose, and there was a small pause in her breathing, then her expression smoothed out and she exhaled on a soft snore.

He stifled a snicker and reached down and poked his index finger into her shoulder. “Veronica, wake up.”

She frowned and swatted at his hand. “G’way. Sleeping.”

He nearly grinned. Fuck, she was cute. But she was in his bed, and he was tired. He poked her again. “Veronica, wake up.”

“Grumph,” she mumbled and rolled onto her back, her eyes still firmly shut.

He hissed out a breath. The oversized T-shirt was white, with a deep V-neck, and it was painfully obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. He could see the dusky shadows of her nipples through the thin cotton, and the cooler night air was making them pucker.

Goddammit. He ground his teeth together and fixed his eyes on her face. “Veronica, wake up.”

She sighed, and her eyes fluttered open. “Why?”

“Because it’s time to go to bed,” he told her gruffly.

She blinked at him owlishly for a moment, then sat up. “Oh. Okay.”

Well, that was easy. He took a step back as she slithered off the couch, the sheet falling away when she stood. He gritted his teeth. The shirt was short, barely covering her crotch, and he’d been right about her thighs—round and firm and smooth, and she had cute, dimpled knees.

Cute knees? Jesus Christ, he was losing it.

She swayed and he reached out to steady her, careful to keep his hands on her shoulders. “Okay?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes hazy and heavy. She smiled at him. “I’m good. How’re you?”

“Great,” he replied gruffly.

“I have to go to bed now,” she informed him and started to sink back down onto the couch.

“No, no, no,” he countered and tightened his grip to keep her upright. “The bed is over there.”

“Oh.” She blinked twice, slowly, then smiled again. “Okay.”

He backed up when she started to walk, keeping one hand on her shoulder. She drifted around the sofa, wobbling a little on the stairs, then floated toward the bed. He let his hand fall away from her shoulders and stepped back, then stepped forward again when she stopped.

She pointed. “That’s not my bed.”

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