Point taken, asshole.
—Text from Rafe to Logan
For a woman who insists we each stay on our sides of the bed when she’s awake, Olivia’s subconscious has absolutely no fucking problem leaping across whatever imaginary line she’s drawn in her sand while she’s sleeping. Every night since Serena slept at the ranch, I’ve woken up the same way—with my gorgeous wife sleeping soundly in my arms. Her tiny shorts riding high on her beautifully bare legs tangled between my own, resting dangerously close to my dick. Her face is buried against my chest, pink lips parted slightly in sleep and long dark lashes kissing her cheek. One delicate arm wrapped around my waist like she’s claimed this spot as hers during the night and has no intention of giving it back. And I’m not sure when it happened, but I don’t hate the idea of being claimed by her.
So fucking pretty.
Not polished or perfectly composed the way she presents herself to the world. No sharp tongue she uses to keep me and everyone else at arm’s length. No war to wage or battle to win.
God help me, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And if I ever told her that, she’d probably find a creative way to threaten my life.
The smarter move is the one I’ve gone with every morning since this new routine started.
Get up. Get out of bed. Get on with my day.
But today, I press my lips to her head and close my eyes, enjoying the quiet comfort for just a few more minutes, committing every second to memory. And maybe I ignore the warning bells that screamabort, abort, impending doom ahead.
I already know there’s no way this ends well. I don’t need to be reminded. Not now.
None of this is real, and it can’t last. But that doesn’t change the fact that this, right here, is slowly becoming my favorite part of the day.
What the hell am I doing?
Carefully, I push the duvet back and tug my arm from underneath Olivia, stopping when she hums.
“Hmmm... Logan.” Okay, that sounded more like a moan.
She presses her lips against my chest, and I fucking freeze. “Logan.”
That was definitely a moan. Shit. She’s dreaming.
Holy shit. She’s dreaming of me.
She shifts her legs, rubbing herself against my cock.
Fuck me. I want this woman, but not like this.
I grab her shoulder as she trails her lips up my neck, pretty sure I’d rather die than stop her. But if I don’t, she’ll fucking kill me when she wakes up.
“Please, Logan...” she whimpers, and my resolve cracks.
“Olive,” I murmur. “Wake up, sweetheart.”
“No...” she cries and slides her body against mine. “More.”
Her lips brush over mine, and my hand grips her face. “Liv?—”
Olivia throws her leg over my waist, and the sweet heat of her pussy has me hard as granite in a fucking second. And the way her breath catches as she moves—so fucking good.
I flip us over, slamming her back against the bed, taking both wrists in my hand and holding them above her head.
My wife’s eyes widen, first in confusion. Then she sucks in a breath as realization dawns, and she shifts her hips, still looking for release.
Gripping her hip with my free hand, I hold her still. “Are you awake, wife?”
She closes her eyes as her cheeks flame. “Do I have to be?”
