Heat rises to my cheeks. “It’s just… um, I usually sleep in a T-shirt. I don’t like being… bare.”
God, he probably thinks I’m being ridiculous. He’s seen me naked. He’s beeninsideme. It’s not like I have anything to hide from him.
But he doesn’t tease me. He simply reaches into his dresser and pulls out a worn T-shirt, tossing it to me.
I smile sheepishly. “Thanks.”
He hums in response.
I turn my back to him as I wiggle out of my jeans, leaving on my black briefs. I unbutton my shirt and let it slide off my shoulders. I quickly slip Mason’s T-shirt over my head, tugging down at the soft fabric. It swallows me, the hem falling mid-thigh.
When I turn around, Mason is staring at me with gentle eyes. I take off my glasses and set them on his nightstand before climbing in beside him. His arm instantly coils around my waist, strong and secure. His head falls to my shoulder like it’s been waiting all night to land there.
“Goodnight, Hunter,” he murmurs into my skin.
I kiss his temple. “Goodnight.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
As it turns out, Mason snores. It’s not loud enough to keep me awake, but it’s loud enough for me to notice it. It’s oddly comforting—the soft, rhythmic sound. His nose scrunches when he exhales, nasally breaths puffing out through his slightly parted lips.
He holds me all night, warm and tight. He once told me he “runs hot,” and he wasn’t lying. He’s sprawled beneath only a sheet, while I’m curled into his side, cocooned under his comforter.
When I wake, sunlight is already leaking through his navy blue curtains. Mason’s still asleep, his curls mussed, his arm heavy over my waist. I don’t want to wake him. I’m a naturally early riser, and I know he’s the complete opposite.
Eventually, my restless brain gets the best of me, and I gently untangle myself from Mason’s embrace. I wander quietly around his bedroom. His dresser is lined with swimming trophies, a few medals hanging together on hooks. A dusty high school yearbook is tucked in his bookshelf. I pull it free and settle at the edge of his bed, flipping through the glossy pages.
The margins are full of signatures—dozens of them, mostly from girls who drew little hearts and smiley faces.
I think of my own senior yearbook, which had exactly two signatures: one from Derek, one from my science teacher. My own twin hadn’t even signed it. It’s painfully obvious how different our high school experiences were.
My eyes stick to Mason’s senior portrait. Same bright smile, same hazel eyes, but softer—more boyish. His curls were shorter back then,brushing just below his ears. Definitely the kind of guy I would’ve had a hopeless crush on. The kind of guy I would’ve thought about while jerking off.
When I turn to the senior superlatives, I nearly laugh out loud.
Of fucking course he wonBest Hair.
The mattress shifts behind me. “Mornin’,” Mason says, his voice low and hoarse.
God, his morning voice is unbelievably sexy. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to pounce on top of him and suck his dick.
“Morning,” I reply, forcing my eyes to stay on the page.
He props himself up on his elbow. “Whatcha’ lookin at?”
“Your yearbook, Mr. Best Hair.”
He grins sleepily, running a hand through his luscious locks like he’s proving the title. “Are you even surprised?”
I smile and shake my head. “Not at all.”
He smirks. “Did you win any superlatives in high school?”
“No,” I admit. “But I was valedictorian.”
“Of course you were, smarty-pants.” His chin rests on my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. “I would’ve voted you for Best Smile, Best Laugh, Best Ass, Best Cock—”
“I don’t think those last two are official categories,” I interrupt, laughing.
