Aspen stands in the doorway, framed by the morning light, soft and bleary-eyed. Her oversized T-shirt barely hits mid-thigh. She’s painfully pretty like this—warm and open in fuzzysocks, her hair messy from sleep, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee as she lifts a hand to block the sun.
Completely unguarded.
For a moment, I forget why I’m here. I forget everything and just stare.
“Hey,” she says, her voice still raspy. Her free hand drops to the hem of her shirt, tugging to cover miles of bare skin.
All at once, the realization strikes me. She’s not wearing pants.
My body reacts, waking the fuck up and taking notice.
I’ve always been a leg guy—not that I date much. But on off nights when I can’t stand to be alone with myself anymore, legs are my weakness.
Wrapped around my waist when you pick her up.
Pushing a knee to her chest as you drive into warm, tight . . .
What the hell am I doing?
I blink, dragging my eyes back to where they belong, and finding Aspen’s teeth scraping over her lower lip, leaving two dents in their wake.
“I wasn’t expecting you this early . . . or at all, after last night.” The last half packs a punch.
Concentrating on anything but her lips, legs, or the tight points of her nipples pushing at the thin shirt is a challenge. No one is my type quite like Aspen.
It takes me a second to respond. “I didn’t sleep much.”
“Oh.” There’s a hint of sadness in that one syllable.
I pause, because that’s not what I need to say. Instead, I gesture toward my shoulder, feeling about as awkward as I sound. “Figured I should get my bandage changed before this burn turns into a science experiment.”
Her mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but close enough to crack the tension.
“Was that you asking for help? Someone alert the media.”
“Rub it in,” I deadpan.
This time, her smile breaks free. “I shouldn’t, but you make it so easy.”
“Don’t apologize. Smug looks good on you.”
She steps back, holding the door open. “I’m leaving soon to meet friends for coffee, but I’ve got time. Let’s get you fixed up.” She holds out her mug for me to take. “Sit. I’ll grab my kit.”
She says it so easily, giving me a pass I don’t deserve.
I lift her mug to my lips and take a sip.
Her mouth drops open. “That was for safekeeping.”
“What exactly feels safe about me, Angel?”
She does that thing where her lips roll together, holding back whatever she wants to say. Maybe that’s what breaks my resolve. Or maybe it’s the way she doesn’t move to take the coffee back.
“I should probably apologize,” I start.
She waits. “Well?”
“It’s been a while. I’m trying to remember how it works,” I say dryly.
