Page 36 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
“Just…real?” Ryder says.
I nod. “Yeah, just real.” He shifts closer, extends an arm, and I immediately snuggle into the crook of his arm and I find the perfect spot. “You give good nook, Ryder.”
His arms tighten, wrapping me closer, twisting toward me so we’re partially facing each other, and his free hand slides to rest on the bell of my hip. “It takes two to nook. You’re pretty great at it yourself.”
“Would you be mad if I fell asleep right now?” I say, drowsily. “Because I totally could.”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t. That’s what nooking is for, obviously.”
I let my hands wander his chest and stomach as I drift off. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can stop myself, at this point.”
“I won’t be far behind you.”
Silence ensues as each of us begins to drowse.
“Ryder?”
“Hmmm?”
“Thank you.”
I feel his attention, sudden and sharp. “For what?”
I smile against his skin. “For making me feel so beautiful.”
His only response is to twist his head, press his lips to my temple, and kiss me.
And that simple, sweet gesture…is my undoing.
I’ve fallen. That kiss to my temple—for better or worse, it’s the tipping point of me accepting and embracing having fallen head over heels for Ryder McCann.
I fall asleep smiling about it.
We never closed the curtains in our room, so city light shines in, waking me.
It’s still night—without twisting out of his arms, I can’t see the clock, but the sky beyond the window tells me it’s nearing dawn, because the blackness between the glassy pillars of skyscrapers is smudged with gray.
I drowse, wanting to sink back into sleep, but I can’t quite fall back under the veil. And honestly, just lying here in Ryder’s arms is almost better, in some ways. He’s asleep, deeply, snoring softly, cutely. His arm is draped around me, resting on my hip. The blankets are up around my shoulders, lying across his chest, cocooning us in warmth.
I’ve never felt so safe, so protected, so wanted.
My chest aches with a feeling, a swelling, a soaring joy, a deep, abiding sense of peace and serenity that is at once comforting and energizing.
My hand rests on his chest, and I give in to the need to just touch him, to express even to myself how pleasing it is to simply touch this man. I let my hand roam his chest, and he stirs but doesn’t wake. I explore the heavy muscle of his chest, the solid strength of his abs hidden under that slight layer of softness. The ridge of his hipbone. The firm breadth of his thigh.
My hand brushes, quite by accident, his flaccid cock, and I grin to myself. It’s not often, at this stage of things, that you get to see a man like this, and I lift the blanket to get a peek.
Ryder shifts, making a small soft sound in his throat and, as I watch, he hardens. I smile, realizing this has nothing to do with me—it’s just the nature of male biology…although the way he’s moving and shifting in his sleep makes me wonder if it’s got something do with his dreams. A smile touches the corners of his lips, and then vanishes, and he’s back under the veil of deep sleep again. Only now, he’s completely hard.
I should let him sleep.
It’d be selfish to wake up him up now.
And then I laugh to myself, because if I know anything about men and male psychology, it’s that no man would ever, ever complain about being woken up for sex unless he was sick or so exhausted it was like being sick.
Leaving the blanket pulled up around my shoulders, I rest my hand on his stomach, biting my lip as I argue with myself about giving in to the desire to just touch him.
Who am I kidding? There’s no argument.
Just a feeble attempt to make myself think my will is stronger than my libido.
And it’s not.
And honestly, why should I resist this? I’ve fallen for him, and I’m going to enjoy every moment of it for as long as I can. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll deal with that. I’ll lean on my friends and probably drink a little too much for a few weeks, and then I’ll pull myself out of it and carry on with my life.
I shy away from trying to envision what it would look like and feel like if things “worked out,” whatever that would even mean.
Instead, I just dive into the moment. Live in the present. Right now, I’m not going to fall back asleep. Right now, I’m consumed with desire. I want to touch him—I need to feel him. Where that goes, I don’t know. I don’t care. Sex, or something else, I don’t care. I just want him in my hand. I just want to touch him.
I gather him in my hand, biting my lip in sheer enjoyment of the feel of his hardness, the thick, heavy girth. He lets out a sigh in his sleep, some part of his subconscious is responding to my touch. I’m tempted to just crawl under the blankets right now, but I resist.
