Page 87 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
My eyes stung again. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah. He promised her, and he told me that night that if the right woman ever comes along, he’d keep that promise. And if he can keep that promise, then I can get the fuck over a betrayal that happened twenty years ago.”
I think of Nova, and the intense conversation I’d witnessed in his kitchen the night of the barbecue, and I wonder if anything ever came of it.
Which leads me to thinking of Ryder and Laurel, and their date, and whether anything came of it…and all these wonderings led me to realize how self-absorbed and blind to the rest of the world and my own friends I’d been during the last few months.
I laugh, a bitter bark. “I’ve been a shitty friend.”
I don’t have to elaborate—Franco understands what I’m saying. “Yeah, me too.”
“You know if anything happened with Ryder and Laurel?”
He shakes his head. “No idea. I’ve been too much of a selfish bastard lately, too focused on my own miserable bullshit.”
“We suck,” I say, laughing. “We need to fix that.”
“Yeah, we do.”
I laugh again. “Why was I so nervous?” I say. “Being with you like this…it feels like…”
“Like we’ve always been together like this?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Exactly.”
Franco is silent a long time, and I feel his breathing slow. “Audra?” I hear him murmur, as I start to drift off myself.
“Hmmm?”
“You’ll still be here in the morning, right?”
“Yeah, I will.” A pause. “Will you?”
“Yeah. I will.”
And then, for the first time in my life, I fall asleep in the arms of a man.
Chapter 15
I wake up slowly, only vaguely aware of my surroundings, or myself. All I know is that I’m warm and comfortable, and deeply and wildly content. I feel sunshine on my face. Something solid and warm and protective surrounds me, and I’m so comfortable that sleep pulls me back under.
I wake up a second time, but this time more fully, and I’m more immediately alert. I’m on my left side and Franco, huge and broad and hard and warm is in front of me, so close my nose is pressed against him. I’m too sleepy, drowsy, and content to open my eyes, but a rush of happiness floods through me like a bolt of adrenaline:
This is Franco. We’re in bed together. Cuddling. We slept together, and we’re both still here.
I murmur sleepily, happily. If this is how it’s going to be, then I’m all about it.
Ugh. I have to pee; as soon as I’m aware of the sensation, it intensifies, until I’m aware that my bladder is full-on screaming, aching. Reluctantly, I roll away and get out of bed, go to the bathroom, wash my hands, and head back to the bed—I do it all on autopilot, still half asleep and hoping to get back in bed and get back to the cozy, drowsy, happiness.
When I get to the bed, Franco has rolled over onto his back and, judging by his breathing, is still sound asleep. The blanket is rucked around his hips, leaving his upper torso bare, and a bolt of desire and need shoots through me at the sight of his naked, muscular body. I slide back into bed, turn my back to his front, and close my eyes. I feel Franco stir, hear him make a wordless, sleepy sound. His arm drapes heavily over my waist, and his breath huffs hot on the back of my neck.
I’m drowsy, but I know I won’t be going back to sleep; I’m too hyperaware of Franco, now.
I feel a change in the air, though. His breathing is different. I remain still, not pretending to be asleep but not really letting him know I know he’s awake, either. His hand flattens against my belly, and I feel him take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly.
“You’re here,” he mumbles, his voice thick and groggy with drowsiness.
“So are you,” I say.
“Best night of sleep in my life.” He runs his hand to my hip, and his fingers catch almost accidentally at the string of my bikini bottom.
“Waking up with you…waking up in your arms…” I hear myself, and my voice is so small, so quiet, so fragile. So unlike me, but a more true version of me—the hidden, secret, delicate Audra who’s always lived deep inside, way down behind my walls, within the shell of strength and athleticism and take-no-shit-don’t-give-a-shit attitude. “It’s…I love it.” The final three words are so quiet I can barely hear myself say it.
His lips touch the back of my neck, just above my shoulder blades. “I love it, too,” he murmurs.
His nose nuzzles against my nape, and his hand cups my hipbone. I press my butt back against him, and I feel the hard, thick evidence of his arousal against me. I’m in no hurry, though. Let this take as long as it takes—let it go slow. Let it take all morning.
