Page 69 of The Pocket Pair

Not to separate bedrooms. But to a single bedroom, a single bed, and a whole night of me getting to cuddle into his chest, wearing his ring and having his last name.

Maybe after a shower, because neither one of us is very fresh from playing basketball. Somehow, as men tend to do, Chevy still smells great. Like Kraken, I think, smiling to myself.

“You like it when I call you Tiny, huh?” he asks. “I always thought I was teasing you.”

“Maybe I like when you tease me.”

Chevy pauses and fumbles with his keys, hopefully NOT because he realized at the same time I did how what I said could be misinterpreted. My head is way too fuzzy to explain.

Somehow he manages to unlock the door while holding me up with one hand. I’m contributing to the cause by keeping my hands wrapped around his neck like I’m a barnacle that has no intention of being scraped off Chevy’s hull. Ever.

He walks us inside, kicking the door closed with the back of his boot as he does. Why do I find that such a sexy move?

“To the bed or to the couch?” he asks, and again—I long for this question in a different reality.

“Couch, I guess.”

Bed means Chevy won’t stay with me. Couch means I might have a fighting chance of staying right where I am, nestled against his chest.

But instead of sitting down and keeping me close, Chevy gently lowers me to the couch and tries to let me go. I make a sound of protest and tighten my grip around his neck like the stubborn barnacle I am.

He chuckles. “Val, you gotta let go, sweetheart.”

Forget Tiny. I want to hear Chevy call me sweetheart again and again.

“Why? Why can’t I just stay here?” I ask, knowing how needy I sound. Needy and whiny. But my eyes are still closed. This is my happy dream.

“I want to get you water and some ibuprofen,” he says. “I think you’re gonna have a stunner of a headache soon. Let me take care of you.”

Well, when he puts it THAT way…

I sigh but remove my hands from his neck. So much for being a stubborn barnacle on the SS Chevy.

But I’m rewarded when he lifts my head with care and places a pillow under it. Then he grabs my soft blue throw blanket and, starting at my feet, tucks it tightly underneath me. As he moves up my legs, goose bumps break out over every part of me. He pauses at my upper thighs—which are really, really excited about being tucked in by Chevy—and his gaze flicks up to mine.

“Too much?” he asks, and I barely resist shouting, More! More! More!

I slide my arms flat against my body. “Cocoon me,” I say.

He chuckles and continues tucking me in, making a big, dramatic show of it. When he reaches my shoulders, he pulls the blanket up to my chin. “There. How’s that, future butterfly?”

His face is inches from mine, close enough for me to see navy flecks in his blue eyes. Close enough to feel his breath on my cheek. I’m honestly glad he did such a good job wrapping the blanket around me. It’s the only thing keeping me from losing all control and pulling his mouth down to mine.

Would Chevy resist?

Would he pull back and remind me that I’m his friend, his little sister’s friend, his roommate?

Am I imagining the way the air charges between us like an electrical storm on performance enhancing drugs whenever we get close?

Are the feelings I have really unrequited?

He hesitates, probably waiting for me to answer, but I’ve forgotten the question. DID he ask a question? Do we really need to use words?

Or … maybe we could put our mouths to use in another way?

I swear it’s not just wishful thinking. It’s not the lump on the back of my head making me see things. I’m not imagining the way his pupils dilate, darkening those gray-blue eyes. I’m not making up the way his breath hitches, or the way his eyes trace a path down my cheeks, stopping at my lips. I’ve been kissed enough times to sense when one is imminent. And right now is one of those moments.

My heart kicks up into a wild rhythm, fueled by anticipation and desire.

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