Page 164 of The Stranger

I’ve been awake an age, just lying here, watching the morning light chase the shadows across the walls. I haven’t been in bed the whole time, because no girl wants to get caught looking like a bushy-haired trash panda after a night of passion.

I’d brushed my teeth with my finger, not knowing how he’d feel about me using his toothbrush (weird, I know), finger combed my hair, and cleaned away all traces of morning after makeup.

Then, wrapped in the soft throw, I’d crept around his room (on sea legs because the man shivered my timbers so good) picking up books and personal effects to see what I could learn from them. Learn about him. I’d picked up an old silver watch from his dresser engraved with something I couldn’t make out, then sniffed a bottle of cologne with a name I’ve never heard of. Looks like his signature scent was created by a personal perfumier.

Imagine that being your job: What do you do for a living? I sniff rich people.

It’s a crazy world.

I even had a little sneaky peek in his huge closet, which is bigger than my bedroom at home.

Paintings hang on the walls. A large abstract piece, modern and bold. A faded seascape and another of olive trees, both in antique frames. But the one thing there isn’t is a picture of his late wife. Is it wrong that I’m glad?

But the most interesting aspect of the room is the man himself. Bronzed skin and dark hair. I allow myself to drink him in as he sleeps.

One arm flung above his head, the linens are tangled low around his hips providing just a hint of that delicious V as sunlight warms his skin.

His chest rises and falls steadily. His shoulder still marked faintly by the press of my teeth. I ignore the thud of a pulse between my legs at that, my eyes moving instead to all those glorious muscles. Biceps, abs, deltoids, and more, pliant now with sleep. But I know how each ripples with pleasure in response to the trail of my fingers. And the flick of a tongue.

He looks as unguarded as I’ve ever seen him, sleep stripping away his worries and responsibilities. How beautiful he is without his armour. The thought catches somewhere behind my ribs. But not my heart. Not my heart.

His leg twitches, then his hand, the linens sighing softly as he stretches his arms above his head. He rouses slowly (rouses and arouses, I’d say by the look of the sheets), consciousness pulling gently at him. Muscles shift beneath his skin, chest and abs and arms, as he arches from the bed with the kind of groan that makes my insides twist pleasurably.

I’m shamelessly riveted by every stretch and flex before his body sinks back to the mattress. I feel my mouth pull in one corner. I mean, would it have killed the universe to make him wake like a normal person? His hair standing up but only on one side of his head, his pillow damp with drool? Or for him to stretch luxuriously and accidentally squeeze out a tiny fart.

My shoulders begin to shake at the thought, and I snort audibly. Thanks, karma!

His eyes suddenly open with a flash of blue, and for a moment, he just stares at me, sleep-soft and bristled cheeks giving him the air of a pirate. A distinguished pirate, his stubble longer and more salt and pepper than usual.

“Sorry,” I say. Totally not sorry for waking you. I try to temper my smile but give in as his own lips curve. My chest floods with a warmth. The space between my legs also.

Down girl. We need a little recovery time.

“Bonjour.” His voice is sleep-rusty and all kinds of sexy.

“Hey, sleepy head.”

“Is it so late?”

“After seven,” I whisper.

Surprise reacts on his face, and as he holds out his hand, I take it.

“Hey!” I complain as I’m unceremoniously dragged across the bed. His arm hooks around my waist until my back is fitted to his chest.

“There’s a strange woman in my bed.” His hand spreads over my stomach as though to prevent an escape.

“Less of the strange.” I give a pat to the back of his big hand, then link my fingers over his thick wrist.

“How did she get here, I wonder?”

“I seem to recall you promised snacks.”

“That would explain the crumbs,” he half complains, shifting in the bed.

“You also promised you wouldn’t kick me out for eating crackers.”

“I preferred the grapes,” his low voice rumbles. Moving my hair, his lips swipe across the nape of my neck.