Page 49 of The Professor's Wife

He turned on an interior light and rummaged through his drawer of clothes, pulling out a large shirt and a pair of pants.

“You’ll be swimming in these,” he warned as he handed them to me. “Especially the pants.”

I smiled. “I don’t mind. I’ll change back into my dress in the morning.”

He looked between me and the clothes, then turned around, giving me his back. He stood still and waited patiently while I changed.

It was tricky with the dress because the zipper was so high. Tristan was so close that I lightly bumped into him several times as I fished for it. He seemed to grow more rigid with every brush, and I wondered how he felt knowing I would soon be completely naked behind him.

“Is your bed going to fit both of us?” I wondered idly.

“It will,” he said stiffly. “It should.”

“Won’t it be tight?”

He inhaled sharply, one hand clenching. “Uh—no, but if you want, if it makes you more comfortable, I can throw down a pad and sleep somewhere else—”

“This is your van,” I cut in. “If anyone’s going to sleep outside, it’ll be me.”

He chuckled, but it sounded off. “I don’t mind sleeping rough.”

I watched his broad back, understanding his stiffness.

Our breaths were quick and loud.

I would be sharing a bed with this man. This man I had thoroughly allowed to explore me in ways nobody else had, and now his back was turned while I changed.

It seemed a little silly.

That we could be so intimate one moment and then awkward and uncertain the next.

My cheeks burned as I let go of the zipper and allowed my arm to fall to my side. I stood straighter, shook the nerves from my limbs, and asked, “Can you undo my zipper, Tristan?”

This was not a nervous man. He radiated confidence. Yet the request made his body still for a touch too long. Made me almost question myself for asking.

Then he turned around slowly.

His mouth was slightly parted as he met my gaze. His eyes, bright and heavy, held mine.

“Turn around,” he said thickly.

I did.

Keeping my gaze steady on the bed, I listened to his movements. The soft shuffle of his clothes rubbing together as he stepped closer.

With gentleness, he gathered my hair and settled it over one shoulder so that it cascaded down my front.

His fingers hovered for a moment at the nape of my neck, not touching, but close enough that I felt the warmth of him anyway.

Then they found the zipper.

I felt the faint pressure of his knuckles against my spine as he took hold of the tiny pull.

He hesitated.

The zipper slid down in a soft, traitorous whisper. Each inch felt louder than the last. His touch was careful, restrained, as if he were handling something fragile rather than simply undoing a dress.

When the zipper reached my lower back, he stopped, his hand lingering there, his breath warm against my shoulder.