Page 47 of When It's Us
I take a quick physical inventory of my body as I lay there, worrying that if I move a muscle, it’ll jar him awake and I’ll have to face whatever this is.
Why can’t I tell if I had sex? Everything feels normal so it must be, right? I would know if I’d taken an overnight trip to Pound Town…right? No, I’m still dressed. Okay, that’s a good sign. Not that a night of sex with Hutch wouldn’t be right up my alley, but I’d like to be sober if it ever happens. Oh God, I’m spiraling.
I try to sit up, but it’s like I can’t move. I can’t draw enough breath into my lungs because this feelsso fucking good.
The slow, even breathing of the massive man beneath me has me sending up a silent ‘thank you’ while I try to figure out a way to untangle myself from the mass of blankets and limbs without waking him up.
Because this isn’t embarrassingat all.
He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, one arm thrown over his head. His hair, dark at the roots but with sandy blond highlights throughout, lays loose and tangled on his pillow. I know women back in California—who pay thousands of dollars per year to replicate the same wavy masterpiece that don’t pull it offhalfas spectacularly as Hutch does.
His other massive work-worn hand, scarred in a few places, tattoos taking up almost every inch of real estate on the forearm, draped over my hip, complete with braided leather and dark beads stacked on his thick wrist. The weight of which feels, even in sleep, possessive and at the same time, strangely right. I’ve never been attracted to men with ink, but something about this man’s does it for me.
His voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, cuts through the silence. “Don’t be a tease, California. If you’re gonna hold it, tighten that grip and move.”
To my complete shock and horror, I realize all at once that not only am I sprawled across his torso like some shameless, half-drunk starfish, but my hand is, in fact, resting. On. His. Junk.
Motherfucker.
I jerk my hand away and sit up with my back to him, sputtering, “I didn’t—I wasn’t. That’s not—”
I’m cut off by a rumbling chuckle and I whip my head in his direction despite my embarrassment, ready to let him have it.
“You could have asked to share a bed. No need to sabotage the Vanagon.”
“Oh my God,” I bite out, more of embarrassment than anger. “You’re insane if you think I would purposely—”
He laughs again, and I glare at him, laid back against the pillows, both arms now tucked behind his head, blankets draped below his waist, wearing that sexy fucking smirk on his face.
My eyes so badly want to drink him in, to drop lower to what I know is the most gloriously delicious V-cut and further to what I also know is the most deliciously magnificent cock I’ve ever seen.
Also, why am I so flustered?
I manage an irritated—okay, horny—huff of breath and throw the blankets back only to be hit with the sight of him fully hard and on display in those barely-there boxers. I’m acutely aware that I am in nothing but a T-shirt and panties when I push to stand up, but my mortification seems to be overriding that thought. I mean, let’s be real, he saw me in less two nights ago.
That is, at least until I turn around and his eyes take a slow appreciative sweep of my body, from the tips of my toes to what I am sure is an outstanding show of bedhead.
Fuck.
His eyes meet mine for a split second before droppingto my chest.
I reach for a pillow and chuck it at his face. “Stop eye fucking me.”
“Hey, those things are eye fuckingme.” He gives a pointed look at my chest and laughs, and I can’t help but smile.
Just a little. Because even though I’m embarrassed, I kind of like that he’s looking. Okay, that’s a damn lie. Ilovethat he’s looking.
I drop my hands on my hips; head canted to the side. “Will you get some clothes on so we can go eat? I’m starving.”
He takes the pillow I hit him with and stuffs it behind his head, then grins up at me.
I can’t help the delighted little thrill that goes through me when his eyes drop back to my tits. It’s nice knowing I’m not the only one who might be struggling to hold back, even if we don’t really have to.
“How about a good morning, Hutch, thanks for sharing your bed with me so I didn’t freeze to death last night?”
I give up trying to keep my tits and thighs covered and huff out a breath. “Good morning,Bigfoot,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we get dressed and go?”
His mouth hitches up at the corner in that perfect smirk before he climbs off the bed. I have to take a half step back, but that’s all the room in this tiny godforsaken vehicle, and his height in here without the roof lifted puts him crowding me from above.
