Page 14 of Should I Fall
“You’recertainly not sleeping on the floor,” Dash says, those hazel eyes flashing stubbornness.
“No one is sleeping on the floor.” I tug again, even though I know it’s pointless. Maybe I just don’t want to let go. He’s been careful to avoid touching me since the adrenaline-fueled make out session earlier, and I’m about over it.
I crave physical contact from this man.
Which is probably the very worst reason to touch him.
I know it’s for the best if we keep our hands—and other eager body parts—to ourselves. Sleeping with a man I just met is not exactly the way to get my life back on track or win back theapproval of my family I’ll surely lose when they find out I quit my stable job.
My sister will be so worried about me being unemployed when I finally tell her what I did that I can hardly face the shame. If I have to admit I also hooked up with the ex-smokejumper at the fire lookout tower who’s fifteen years older than me—we compared notes earlier—she’ll think I’m having some sort of quarter-life crisis. And right now, the woman who called off her wedding is the only one allowed to have a quarter-life crisis.
“Dash, I swear if you don’t—” I let out a small squeal as I topple off the bed and right into his lap.
Because I wasn’t packed for being stranded overnight, I borrowed one of his oversized T-shirts to sleep in. That T-shirt catches on my tumble down, exposing my thighs, yellow boy-short panties, and a good portion of my stomach.
“Thisis why we can’t share a bed,” Dash growls, running both of his calloused palms up my thighs and squeezing them.
“Have you ever trying sleeping in skinny jeans?” I protest, though my words are a little breathy due to his hands on me at long last. I should probably crawl off of him, but the longer I sit here, my pussy mere inches from a shaft I watch harden beneath his sweatpants, the less I seem to rememberwhy.
“Then put on a pair of my sweatpants,” he fires back, his words a low growl.
“Already tried that.” I trace a tattoo of a raven on his chest with my fingertip, not even aware I’m doing it until I catch him looking down at my hand. “They’re too big for me. They just fall right off.”
“Stormi.” The way he says my name is a warning.
“Do your tattoos mean anything?” My fingertip moves onto his bicep, tracing a mountain range around his thick arm.
“Some, yes.” He presses his palms into my thighs, the pressure causing a quiver low in my belly. I think he means togrip me to throw me off of him. Instead, his thumbs move in slow circles along my inner thighs. With each swipe, they move closer to my panty line.
“What about this one?” I ask of the paw print tattooed on above his right pec.
“Blaze’s mother, Ella.”
His thumbs dip beneath the yellow fabric, sliding north up my thighs.
“Like Cinderella?”
“Yes.”
His thumbs slide closer to my center, and his grip tightens.
I let out a soft whimper, rocking my hips forward to urge him to that finish line.
“Fuck,” he growls, his voice so low I almost don’t make out the words.
“Yes please?” I flash him a cheesy grin, hoping to tug one of those potent smiles from his lips. It’s better than the outright rejection I’m anticipating.
But Dash’s fingers are still inside my boy-short panties, hardly an inch away from where I really want them. I flicker my gaze to his, and the liquid heat there is undeniable. He wants this as badly as I do. I cansenseit.
A voice whispers in the back of my head that this is a really foolish idea. Not because it would make me look bad to my sister, but because I think I might actually be falling for this man.
I don’t understand it.
But Iknowit.
He feels like safety.
Likehome.
