Page 46 of Cold Feet
Chapter 9
Warmth. That was the first sensation that registered as I drifted toward consciousness. A solid, comforting warmth pressed against my back, radiating through my thin tank top and settling deep in my bones. For a moment, I kept my eyes closed, savoring the sensation and the hazy, dreamlike quality of those first seconds of wakefulness.
Then reality crashed in.
That wasn't just any warmth. That was Cam Murphy's body wrapped around mine, one arm draped heavily across my waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of my neck. Once again during the night, we'd gravitated toward each other like magnets, and now we were full-on spooning in my childhood bedroom, his long legs tangled with mine and his long fingers splayed possessively across my abdomen.
I should move. I should extricate myself carefully and pretend this never happened. That would be the professional thing to do.
But I didn't move.
Instead, I found myself hyper-aware of every point of contact between us: his chest solid against my back, his knees tucked behind mine, the light scratch of stubble where his jaw rested against my shoulder. The soft cotton of his t-shirt against my bare skin. His breath stirred the fine hairs at my nape, sending whispers of electricity down my spine with each exhale.
And most surprising of all – my own reluctance to break the connection.
A strange, unbidden emotion welled up inside me: relief. Relief that he was still here. Relief that I hadn't woken up alone in a cold bed with nothing but the memory of his touch. Relief that, unlike ten years ago, Cam Murphy hadn't disappeared before dawn.
The ridiculous irrationality of that feeling jerked me fully awake. Of course he hadn't disappeared. Where would he go? We were in my parents' beach house, pretending to be engaged. It wasn't like he had a choice.
Still, the relief lingered, a soft counterpoint to the hammering of my heart.
Behind me, Cam stirred, his arm tightening briefly around my waist in a reflexive gesture that sent a cascade of tingles across my skin. His hand slid up to rest just beneath the curve of my breast, and I held my breath, wondering if he'd wake up and realize our compromising position. How would he react? Would he pull away? Make a joke? Or would he…
"Morning," he murmured, his voice sleep-rough and low, vibrating against my shoulder blade.
So much for pretending to be asleep.
"Morning," I replied, aiming for casual and missing by about a mile. My voice came out embarrassingly breathy.
Neither of us moved. The moment balanced on a knife's edge – intimate, charged, dangerous.
"Sleep okay?" he asked, still not relinquishing his hold. If anything, his thumb began aimlessly tracing random figures against my hip, as if he wasn't even aware he was doing it – each lazy swirl sending fresh sparks along my nerve endings.
"Fine," I managed. "You?"
"Best night of sleep I've had in months," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "You're very, uh, cuddly."
That broke the spell. I twisted away from him, sitting up abruptly, instantly missing his warmth even as I tried to look affronted. "We agreed to boundaries, Murphy."
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking unfairly attractive with his hair rumpled and his eyes still heavy with sleep. The morning sun filtering through the gauzy curtains cast him in a golden glow that emphasized the planes of his face and the undeniably bawdy stubble along his jawline, that every cell in my body was begging him to rough up. The sheets pooled at his waist, revealing the worn Slashers t-shirt that had ridden up to expose a stripe of tanned skin and the faint trail of golden-brown hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.
I dragged my gaze away, annoyed at my body's instant, visceral response.
"Pretty sure you're the one who migrated into my territory," he teased, gesturing to the obvious depression on his side of the mattress where I'd clearly been nestled. "I was just being accommodating. You know, like any good houseguest would."
Heat crept up my neck. "I did not migrate."
"You did. You practically burrowed into me like a little heat-seeking missile." His grin widened, transforming his face into something almost boyish. "Don't worry, I didn't mind. You're cute when you're unconscious."
"I'm not… " I sputtered, then caught the teasing gleam in his eye. He was deliberately trying to rile me up, and damn it, it was working. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly comfy, according to your sleep self." He stretched languidly, giving me an unwanted glimpse of his abs as his shirt rode up further. "Your sleep self is very wise."
I grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. "My sleep self is clearly delusional and not to be trusted."
He caught the pillow easily, laughing. "Let the record show that you're the one who broke the pillow DMZ. This was an act of aggression, Decker."
"This is… " A knock at the door cut me off mid-retort.
