Page 79 of Wild Pitch
“Starr?” I whisper and he doesn’t stir. Something really is up.
I approach slowly not to spook him in case he wakes up—but there’s no need, dude’s completely out cold. He lies on his side, facing the lamp, one hand on his cellphone maybe since we last talked.
The bed sheets lost the fight in trying to cover him at some point and they’re balled up between his legs. Fortunately, he’s wearing gray sweat pants. Unfortunately, no shirt. I’m not strong enough to stop myself from admiring the clear ridges of the serratus anterior muscles that cover his ribs. They’re very pretty, okay? His brown hair is a complete bird’s nest atop his head, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes in and out softly.
But finally I notice his face. There’s a bit of a scruff going on, and it doesn’t hide the pinkness of his cheeks.
I’ve never in my life seen Cade Starr blush. He’s one of those people who tends to grow paler while exercising, rather than pink. In fact, he even tans golden rather than pink, as shown by the clear tan lines in his arms.
Without thinking, I place the back of my hand against his forehead and he’s hot. Like, not just attractiveness wise. He’s legit burning up with a high fever.
Just as I’m about to pull my hand away, he traps my wrist in his hand.
I freeze. His eyes are still closed and there’s no change in his breathing, like he’s still unconscious.
I make another attempt at freeing myself and it backfires. Spectacularly.
With a grunt, Starr yanks at my arm with so much strength that it tilts me off my axis. I barely manage to suppress a squeal, focused on not crashing into him. My knee against his mattress stops some momentum, until he shifts to use his other hand.
Next thing I know, he flips me around until my back crashes against his chest. All the air leaves my lungs as he tosses a leg over my hip and pulls me flush against him. The lack of oxygen to my brain keeps me paralyzed as he settles his arms around me, the one under my neck wrapping around my chest, over my boobs, until his hand rests on my shoulder. His other arm falls over around my waist, his hand snuggling under my ribs.
Snuggling.
Cade Starr issnuggling me.
Mierda. Mierda. What the hell do I do?
If I move—if he wakes up—oh, this is gonna be bad.
But also, what if hedoesn’twake up? I can’t spend the whole freaking night in his bed. That would be worse!
Oh my gosh, I’m in Cade Starr’s bed.
No. That doesn’t matter. The issue here is that he feels like a log that’s burning inside a fireplace. Sweat is already breaking all over the areas of my body pressed against his. That might also be because some of them are in contact with parts of Starr’s anatomy I never imagined I’d be in contact with. Or somewhat contact. Thankfully there are layers of clothing.
Welp. What if he was one of those guys who sleep naked?
In reflex, I jerk my head in a hard shake and that does stir him.
“Hmm.”
That relaxed, almost delighted little sound from his throat sends my heart rate through his expensive roof. Worse, he wraps himself a little tighter, his arms closing dangerously around my chest.
I don’t need to touch my hand to my face to know it’s burning up worse than he is, but for an entirely different reason. Even when Dawson and I were still besotted with each other, I can’t remember a single time he embraced me anywhere as deliciously as an unconscious Cade Starr. Imagine what it’d be like while he’s fully awake and it’s intentional?
I’d die.
He’d probably die if he wakes up and finds me here, though. If the roles were reversed, I’d scream bloody murder and call the cops.
I test the situation by touching his bare forearm, the one over my chest. It gets me no reaction, so I wrap my hand around the firm muscles and tug—and again, until his hold comes loose and I can lower his arm to the mattress. His knuckles collide with his phone screen, but that still doesn’t wake him up.
Swallowing thickly, I try the same trick with his other arm. This one’s more awkward because it lays above me, but with some effort I manage to rest it on his side without it sliding. His breath keeps fanning my nape steadily and when he makes no attempt at trapping me again, I begin wiggling away from him.
My traitorous nostrils widen almost impossibly, trying to capture his scent on the sheets. It almost makes me dizzy from how good it is, and I can tell that it’s not from aftershave but purely from his skin.
I roll toward the edge of the bed and drop to the floor on a crouch, ready to hide under his bed if he opens his eyes. But no, he’s still completely gone to the world.
I rise back up and lower one knee on his mattress again. Placing one hand against his chest, the other one balancing me over the mattress, I push him hard until he rolls to his back, arms spread wide. Huffing, I walk around to the foot of the bed to yank free the sheets that are tangled around his legs. I throw them over him, even going as far as tucking them into his sides to keep all the heat in. This way he’ll sweat and finally break the fever.
