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It couldn’t hurt. It’s not as if he’d ever know.
Slowly, she released his arm from over the top of her and it curved around her, cupping her breast.
Even in his sleep he was trying to get frisky with her.
After examining the soft brown hairs on his arm, the muscles sculpted even in the fingers that unconsciously caressed her, she closed her eyes and pretended to drift off.
In reality?
She was wide awake, worrying why he felt so damn good.
And how long it would take for it all to come crashing down around her.
FROM THE DIARY OF AVERY FORRESTER
A short poem:
Why won’t the gallery message me?
What do you think about that?
I’m judging myself pretty harshly
And so, I think, is my cat.
Oh, why won’t the gallery call me?
The worst they can say is no.
Or they could insist that I’m the protagonist
In a talent-free total hack show.
Still, I think they should call me.
I wouldn’t mind if they did.
But if they say no—where do I go?
Back to Maryland? As if.
P.S. I am not good at journaling. Or, apparently, poetry. Maybe this is why the gallery hasn’t called?
Chapter Nine
When Holden woke up, he found his arm lying protectively on an all-too-familiar figure. Blond hair brushed against his chest as he slowly registered where each of his body parts had arranged themselves while he’d been sleeping.
His hand was wrapped around the swell of Avery’s chest, his leg was wrapped around her thigh, and his cock was pressed against the seam of Avery’s pretty little ass, poised and hoping for an extra-special morning.
It was seven. Normally, he would have worked out and had breakfast by now. But he looked down again, saw those lashes pressed against Avery’s peaceful cheeks, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Five more minutes, he told himself. Just five more minutes. And he nuzzled his neck against her head before drifting back to sleep.
Avery woke him again at ten, half yawning and already midway through a speech.
“I’ll never understand how men just accept that they wake up every morning with their flags at full mast. It makes no sense to me.” She ground into him as she said the words, as if in an effort to emphasize her point. “What if you woke up every morning to someone punching you in the face? Do you think people would get used to it?”
The move was a particularly clever one, even for her, but he saw past the veneer. Her voice was too rough. Her action was too forced. There was only one explanation for what had happened the other night—Avery had wanted him. No, not wanted him. She’d needed him.
Not that she’d ever say as much when she was in her right mind.
