Page 93 of Blush Crush

He falls over the peak with me, a string of strained curses flying from his lips.

When the fog begins to clear, I find myself clinging to Cole like a koala, our breathing in sync. Slowly, I loosen my grip on him, untangling my arms and leaning my back against the steering wheel.

There’s a lazy, satisfied smirk on his face, eyes half-closed.

I’ve never looked at Cole and thought he looked old despite the ten years between us, but right now he looks much younger than I’m used to, boyishly handsome.

And something about it makes the muscles in my stomach start to squeeze, maybe even flutter.

“I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a teenager.” He chuckles and then places a soft kiss on my lips. “Highly underrated.”

An air of self-consciousness creeps in. I know I asked for lessons for this very reason, but it’s still embarrassing that I’ve never even done this before now. A grown woman who’s never dry humped. Further proof of how far behind I really am.

“Hey.” He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Get out of your head and come back to earth and enjoy this with me. Your pussy is so good, I came in my pants just from rubbing against it. That means I liked it, okay? Everything we’ve done, I’ve wanted it too. I’m a selfish bastard so believe me when I say I’m exactly where I want to be and I’m loving every second of it.”

I don’t know how he reads me so well—how he knows the exact moment I start questioning everything. It’s a relief, honestly, not having to explain where my head is at. He just gets me.

Maybe that’s why he’s never short on company. It’s like he’s cracked the code, knows exactly what women want. Kind of a dangerous skill if you ask me.

His hand slides up into my hair, gently cradling my head. “Do you believe me? Blink once for yes or twice for no.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

He brushes his thumb across my bottom lip. “There it is. More smiles less panicking. Deal?”

I nod, not trusting my voice with the sudden swell of emotion expanding around my heart. It’s his patience. His care. The way he sees me.

Not things I would have once called sexy—and yet they outshine everything else. The dreamy blue eyes. The ruggedly handsome face. The Greek-god body. Even his stupid-hot height.

Cole is proving to be more than I ever imagined.

“Here you go,” Cole says, handing me a pair of his sweatpants and a hoodie. “I’m going to clean up. Make yourself at home.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing behind the door to his en suite, leaving me alone in his bedroom.

Layla always says you can learn everything you need to know about a man from his bedroom. No headboard? Fuckboy. Unwashed sheets? Probably doesn’t manscape. Old food and dirty dishes? He’s looking for a mommy, not a partner. Mattress on the floor? Run.

Based on her criteria, I’m not sure what to make of Cole.

A king-sized bed sits at the center, against a wall. The headboard and frame are greige suede, the bedding a deep charcoal, and the bed is made the way a hotel would make it—layered and folded with more than enough cloud-like pillows. Two matching nightstands flank either side, each with a lamp. A large woven rug anchors the whole thing, and above the bed hangs an oversized canvas of a vineyard landscape.

He put intention and thought into this space. It’s so…adult. I mean obviously he’s a man in his thirties, but I think I’d be less surprised if he had an unmade bed without a headboard and a stack of crusty cups in the corner.

I can’t help but feel out of my element a bit.

The sound of water running in the sink shakes me out of some of the shock so I undress and pull on the clothes Cole handed me before he comes back.

I was worried for a second they wouldn’t fit right. Women and men are built differently, and that particular fantasy—drowning in a man’s clothes, the way it looks in movies—always seemed designed for a different body type than mine. But Cole is broad and tall and I’m swimming in his clothes, and I feel perfectly cozy.

I take a careful seat at the foot of the bed, hands twisted in my lap because I have no idea what to do with myself.

The door swings open a moment later and Cole strides out shirtless, low-slung gray sweatpants sitting indecently on his hips. It’s the male equivalent of lingerie.

Every coherent thought I had flies straight out the window. His chest is dusted with dark hair, ab muscles cut and defined, and for one brief traitorous moment I think about what it might feel like to run my tongue over each one. I screw my eyes shut and snap my gaze away before my brain can run wild with fantasies.

Noticing the expression on my face, he freezes. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” I tell him truthfully because there’s no sense in lying. Knowing Cole, he’d draw the truth out of me anyway.