Page 60 of Only in Your Dreams

A little mood lighting. A little mood music, maybe.

But no, that would definitely freak her the fuck out.

I put fresh sheets on the bed yesterday, thank God, but I hustle to the basket of unfolded laundry, shove it into the closet. Then double back with an armful of clothes I discarded after my shower and throw those in the closet, too.

There. Good enou—

I rush to the bed, fluff the pillows for good measure.

Okay, this is fine. Absolutely fine.

Problem number two: how do you dress for bed when you’re on a mission to break a brutal cycle of insomnia with the woman you’re in love with, who recently let you worship her body?

Do I leave on my sweats and t-shirt? Go for a simple boxer-brief thing?

The bathroom door squeals open. I wheel around to find Mel dressed in a full, oversized sweatsuit I think I recognize as Parker’s. Like she’s determined to cover every bit of skin in cotton armor.

Well, that answers that question.

“You’re sending very clear signals,” I tell her. “Socks too, huh?”

“What’s wrong with wearing socks to bed?”

My feet are moving, aching to touch her just as bad as if she came out wearing nothing. Despite the evidentwe’re not fucking tonightoutfit, her lips rub together as she watches me come closer, stop just short of her. Fuck, it takes everything in me not to pull her close, pick her up, bury my face in her hair. Drop to my knees and beg her to let me have a taste of her. Just a tiny one, a small lick.

I bet she’s the sweetest thing.

“Which side of the bed do you want?” I ask instead.

Mel bites her lip. “We were spooning the last time we slept.”

Oh, Jesus. Is it too late to rub one out before we do this?

“Middle of the bed it is.”

There are a few seconds of awkward shuffling as we settle in bed and she wrestles with her oversized sweater when it twists around her. A moment later, Mel sits up with a huff.

“Why are you a furnace?” she grumbles, glaring at me in accusation.

“Yeah, I’m the problem here. It can’t possibly be the snowsuit you’re wearing to bed.”

“I was trying to keep things PG-13.”

She rips the sweater off then smacks me in the shoulder when I bark out a laugh at the sight of the long-sleeve she’s wearing underneath. She strips off her socks and throws them over the edge of the bed.

Then, with an aggrieved sigh, she drops onto her back and shimmies around under the covers. She pulls her sweatpants out from underneath and throws those overboard, too. I peek under the sheets. She’s wearing a pair of polka-dotted, silky-looking shorts.

“I was expecting long underwear.”

“I couldn’t find any!” she says keenly. “I tried to steal a pair from Parker, but then he caught me poking around his room and I had to pretend to offer to do his laundry, which of course he agreed to. I spent the night washing my brother’s underwear!”

“Okay, this is all a little insulting. Did you expect me to jump you or something?” She gives me a scathing look and shuffles closer, back under my arm. “Oh. Oh, I get it now. I was thinking you were wearing an armor. It was a straitjacket, wasn’t it? You’re the one who can’t control yourself.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles.

“Don’t worry, I trust you with my virtue.” I kill the light and then shift her so that she backs into my front. “Though if you feel your hands start to wander in the night, just go with it. See where it takes you.”

I gather up her hair, gently untucking the strands caught underneath her and twisting it all up on the pillow so that I don’t accidentally roll over it in the night.

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