Page 1 of Loving at 40

1

[Jenna]

Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, and she’s still in it.

I thought I was dreaming. I’d been reading copious amounts of children’s tales to my two little girls, and I was convinced the sentences had seeped into my subconscious. I could not get away from being a mom even in my sleep. But slowly, my brain registers that the sound of that final bear’s voice was a little too gruff and a little too gravelly and a whole lot of sexy.

My eyes flip open in the dark bedroom, and my heart races. I am not alone in here. My chin is pinned by the power of a thick paw of callused fingertips, and the depth of dark eyes narrowed and focused keeps me frozen in place. His nose is so close we practically touch, and I’d scream if only my vocal cords worked.

“However, she doesn’t look like Goldilocks.” His eyes flick up to my hair, which happens to be raven black, and he chuckles, rugged and low. “So who the hell are you?”

I swallow, feeling his wrist near my throat as his fingers hold my jaw. Something cold and metallic brushes the center of my chest. Dear God, don’t let him hurt the girls. The thought speeds up my already sprinting heart.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I choke out, and his eyes widen.

“What the fuck?” he snaps, startling me even more. “You’re in my bed, ’Locks.” The incredulous tone roughens his deep tenor.

His bed?

My mind flips through a mental checklist. This is Anna’s house. This is Lakeside Cottage. Her folks owned the place, and she inherited it. My daughters and I are her guests. The apartment above the garage was offered to me for a much-needed break. She said her brother—

“Archer?” I croak, wondering if the man holding my jaw is the elusive older brother Anna has mentioned a time or two. He wasn’t expected here. At the sound of his name, his hand slowly releases my chin but travels south to my throat. The thick palm isn’t squeezing. He just rests it in place like a turtleneck sweater. I can still breathe, but my lungs have stopped working. Despite the dark room, the intensity of his eyes sucks up all the oxygen in the space.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I struggle to find the words to answer him. Maybe it’s that strong voice or the fact he’s on all fours over me. How did I not hear him enter the apartment? Or this room? Or this bed?

“I’m Jenna Davis, a friend of Anna’s.”

His hand lowers even more, flattening on my chest. I’m certain he can feel my heart thumping under my skin. Wearing pajama shorts and a tank top I bought for this little getaway, I’m loosely covered by a sheet and summer blanket, but I’m all too aware of how thin the material is. The heat of his hand seeps through my flesh just above the swell of my breasts, which rapidly heave in fear. Maybe fear isn’t the right word. Is it possible I’m also turned on? Despite not knowing Anna’s brother, I was having the most arousing dream before the gruff bear invaded my thoughts, and that dream has my nipples on high alert, especially now that someone’s hand is very near them.

However, my head says this is all wrong.

“What are you doing?” I choke because his hand is sweeping lower. My gut reaction is to lift my knee for his balls, which I do. Only, two things happen at the same time. He captures my leg between his thighs before I get anywhere near his precious cargo, and his hand slips lower, squeezing my breast.

“What the fuck?” he says again like sandpaper against rocks.

“What the frickety-frack?” I say at the same time.

“What the fuck is frickety-frack?” That incredulous tone returns, and I finally find enough strength to lift my arms upward and push at his chest. Speaking of rocks, he’s missing a shirt, and his smooth pecs are as solid as a boulder. Something silvery and long dangles around his neck. He bitterly chuckles at my weak attempt to move him but shifts enough so I can scramble out from underneath him. He remains on the bed, on his knees, while I slip off the mattress and back up until I collide with the wall.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. That rugged voice softens only a sliver.

Crossing my arms over my chest in a giant X, I attempt to cover myself. “You just manhandled my boob,” I blurt.

“You were sleeping in my bed. Find a woman in my bed means I get to touch her.”

“That’s rather assumptive and chauvinistic.”

“Those are two big words I can’t comprehend in the middle of the night, babe.”

I huff again and then think of my girls.

“Tell me you didn’t touch my daughters.” My heart hammers as the statement stammers from my lips.

“You’ve got kids?”

I roll my shoulder against the wall, intending to slip from the room through the open door. Only, I misjudge the distance to the entrance and smack into the frame.