Page 19 of The Stud Next Door (Frisky Business 3)
So many things can happen under the covers. So many things that no one would ever have to know about. So many things I’ve dreamed about in my sleep.
“Thanks again for coming with us.” His voice is low and sincere, and it cuts straight through me.
“You’re welcome,” I manage to say, even though my throat is suddenly dry.
“Good night, Jessa. Sleep well.”
Hearing my name on his lips sends a shiver down my spine, and that same ball of need winds itself tighter in my gut.
“You too.”
In the morning, I wake curled up on my side, feeling warm and secure, more comfortable and well-rested than I’ve been in a long time.
With my eyes still closed, I stretch out one of my legs, and it brushes against something firm—firmer than a pillow or a comforter would be. I stretch my leg further, almost beginning to straighten out, when I feel something warm and firm behind me, and then something heavy across my side and over my chest.
The haziness of sleep slowly slips away from my brain, and I realize what’s happening.
It’s Connor. I’m cuddling with Connor. Or rather, Connor’s cuddling me. He’s pressed against my backside, spooning me in his sleep.
Suddenly, I’m completely awake, but I’m not about to do anything to stop what’s happening yet. His breathing is still deep and slow, which means he’s still asleep, which means I get to savor this for a few moments longer.
The feel of his strong arm draped over my waist, his broad, muscular chest pressing into my back, the scent of his aftershave—it’s all a rush. It doesn’t take long until I’m aware of how accessible my most sensitive parts are to his hands. How easy it would be for this position to become something more.
He stirs, taking in a deep breath and flexing his biceps against me. I sigh and stretch too, pretending like I’m waking up as well. I turn just in time for Connor to groggily open his eyes. When he realizes where he is—what we’re doing—he pulls away, and I instinctually mirror his movements.
“Shit,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. But I’m sorry too. This is awkward.”
Why do I always babble so much when I’m around him? Why can’t I be as cool and smooth as he is in situations like this?
Connor doesn’t respond, merely grunts in response.
It’s probably too early to have a full-on conversation about this. But still, for the rest of the morning, I can’t get the feel of his arms around me out of my head. Or his scent. Or the image of how sexy he looks in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.
Even if nothing ever happens between us, something tells me I’ll be thinking about last night for a long time.
7
* * *
CONNOR
“Birthday shots, birthday shots!”
With four shot glasses crammed haphazardly between his fingers, Caleb approaches our pool table with a goofy smile on his face. Judging by the color of the liquor, or lack thereof, it’s either tequila or vodka. No limes, though, so either Caleb half-assed the order or he’s entirely forgotten how much I hate vodka. Either could be true.
Despite his egging on, Hayes and Wolfie kindly don’t join in on the ridiculous chant. Caleb distributes each glass before holding his aloft, the rest of us following suit.
“Here’s to another dirty thirty, my man. Cheers!”
If I sighed any deeper, I might deflate entirely.
Yes, it’s my birthday, and yes, I know I should be living it up, celebrating with my friends, and I am—I’m here. But my brain is still back at home, a big part of me wishing I was chilling on my couch with my little girl and the sports highlights on TV.
As of tonight, I’m no longer a twenty-something with nothing but time to lose. Now I’m a thirty-year-old single dad who feels out of place in smelly bars with shitty pool tables. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful my friends got me out of the house tonight. It was overdue. And with Jessa at home, it’s nice knowing Marley is fine without me every now and then.
With Caleb on a mission that can only end with us suffering from hangovers tomorrow, I’m sensing there’s an expectation that I’ll let loose like I used to. To them, Crazy Connor isn’t such a distant memory. But to me, those days feel like a lifetime ago.
We toss back our shots, and I shudder from the sharp, acetonic flavor of cheap vodka. Jesus. That’s nasty.
“You couldn’t have gotten the good stuff?” Wolfie grumbles, quickly chasing the bitterness away with a gulp of some dark imperial stout.
“Look, I asked for middle-shelf. There’s a strategy to this. Start with the nasty shit, then slowly move on to the good shit—it makes it harder to quit. And it makes it so, so much easier to get our birthday boy wasted.”
