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The bed shifts beside me just as a large, masculine hand snakes its way over my bare stomach. Then a half-moan, half-sigh emanates from what must have been my human pillow a second before.
My eyes pop open as the realization hits me.
I’m in bed …with a man?
Oh, fudge.
“Mm, closer,” my sleepy companion murmurs, and his fingers curl around my hip.
Slowly, carefully, I turn my head to the left, the movement triggering a wave of dizziness. I blink in disbelief.
“Blake?” I whisper.
His eyes remain closed, but his lips form a smile as he lies beside me on his stomach. At least he won’t have my drool on his chest anymore.
But, um, WHAT ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH AM I DOING IN BLAKE BOURGEOIS’ BED?
Ouch, my brain whines.Stop yelling, would you?
I roll my eyes at my inner monologue as I continue the silent screaming match. Then I lift the sheets and glance down, realizing I’m completely naked. I’ve never slept in the nude in my life, yet here I am, lying next to my one-and-only rival in my birthday suit. I allow my eyes to travel over to verify that Blake is also undressed for the occasion. At least he’s lying parts-down.
What … when … how … why?
The only question I have the answer to at this point iswho.
I shield my eyes from the light streaming in through the blinds and attempt to replay the night before, looking for clues that might explain how the heck I ended up here and whether the obvious occurred.
Okay, think, Loren.
What’s the last thing I remember from yesterday?
Tenley and JD’s wedding—I was a MOH/witness for their short but oh-so-sweet ceremony in church. We were all supposed to go to dinner to celebrate afterward, but JD pulled out and basically promised a slow, painful death to anyone who interrupted their makeshift honeymoon for the next day or so.
I bet he hadn’t pulled out of anything else for the rest of the day.
I snort to myself.
And then I realize the current evidence suggests I tried to recreate a wedding-night scenario of my own with JD’s brother last night. A shudder of panic overtakes me as I wrap my mind around the idea that I absolutely, most definitely did more than sleep in this bed with Blake.
Ireallydid the deed with Blake flipping Bourgeois.
A montage of blurry memories floods my brain, beginning with an interaction immediately following the wedding in which I offered an olive branch by comforting an uncharacteristically emotional Blake, to grabbing takeout together and going back to his house for a few drinks, to toasting the happy newlyweds, and eventually to the events leading to my current predicament.
Heat flashes in my core as I recall the feeling of Blake undressing me and kissing nearly every inch of my skin, the firmness of his defined body under my hands, and even the reverent look in his eyes while we … yeah. He’d been a surprisingly tender lover.
Lover?Ew, I hate that word. It’s almost as cringy asmoist.
I bite my lip. Even though Blake and I are the complete opposite of attached, I remember feeling cherished, maybe even adored during our encounter last night. It was totally unexpected, and now I’m left questioning whether the past seventeen years or so of teasing and animosity have only been a front for some other deeply rooted sentiments for either of us.
Blake shifts beside me again, bringing me back from my thoughts. I turn my head to watch him for a second, and his expression changes. He scrunches his face and grasps at my hip, pulling me in slightly.
“Don’t go,” I think I hear him mumbling, but it’s hard to decipher. His face softens again, and I stare for a minute longer, admiring how his eyelashes fan over his cheeks and the way a light stubble has started to form a shadow over his sharp jawline. I fight the urge to reach up and run a finger over the planes of his face, because like it or not—and I definitely donot—Blake’s body is absolute perfection. He’s always looked more like a statue of a Greek god than a real human, carefully chiseled out of some precious stone, created just to tease the rest of us mere mortals. I learned long ago that it’s much easier to dislike him than to try to avoid staring directly at him for too long.
He swallows hard and sighs again, and I do the same as I watch his throat working. Then I indulge once more and allow my eyes to follow the muscular trail that begins between his shoulders and leads to a dip in the center of his back, the sheets resting there. Just for good measure, I lift the blankets again to complete the visual journey down to the point of his lower back that’s just above where his (shocking—I know) amazing butt begins. I’ve never seen this much of him before, but Blake is seriously and unnaturally gorgeous.
It’s not even fair. No weird birthmarks, no repulsive patches of lower-back hair, just … perfection. He’s Mr. Golden Ratio.
My stomach flutters as I replace the covers, wondering what the hell a man this flawless is doing here with a hot mess like me. While I can vaguely recall him telling me “I’ve always wanted to do this with you” and “you’re so beautiful” during the course of events last night, I can’t help but feel like the way he practically worshiped my body with his was enough evidence of his attraction. However, since thisisBlake Bourgeois, modern-day rake and accomplished seducer of women, it’s more likely that he simply employed a few of his proven lines and his many years of experience in bed to create that very illusion.
