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He turns his head back toward me, blinking slowly. “Watcha doin’?”
“What does it look like?”
He looks frigging adorable lying there like that, staring at me with those pretty, long-lashed eyes of his.
Wait, did I say “adorable”? Oh crap, I’ve got it bad...
“Still trying to get in my pants?” he teases quietly.
It wins a laugh out of me. “Been there, done that, remember?”
“Hm. Yeah, that was fucking awesome.” He cracks a faint grin. “Damn, now look what you’ve gone and done.”
What...? Oh. The front of his jeans is tented. From where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, this fact is right in my face, impossible to miss. As I watch, the bulge grows bigger.
“You’re a machine,” I whisper, impressed in spite of myself.
“A sex-machine.”
“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
It’s his turn to laugh. He lifts his hand, pushes down on his hard-on, hisses a little. “Damn. What you do to me, woman.”
I ignore the burning blush on my cheeks and finish with his boots, letting them thump to the floor. I wonder when was the last time these sheets were changed. The room doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while. I guess I didn’t really believe him when he said he didn’t sleep here.
“Luna.”
I look up. “What?”
“Come here.” He curls a hand behind my head and tugs me down to kiss me. His mouth is dry, and he’s so warm. Hot. Scorching.
I pull back. “I should get you a wet cloth, some ibuprofen. You’re burning up.”
He’s looking at me from under his lashes. “I want you to sit on my face, Luna.”
“What?” I stare down at him, torn between laughing and moaning at the mental image of what he wants to do to me. “You’re feverish.”
“Just hot for you.” He winks.
“You’re never serious.”
“I’m very serious about you.” Those blue eyes meet mine, unflinching. Determined. Earnest and full of desire.
I can’t help the way my heart is pounding. He’s saying such sweet things, and dirty things. And I want to believe everything so badly. Try everything with him. Trust that he means it and won’t discard me once he feels better tomorrow.
Speaking of which... “I really have to go. I don’t want Dad calling the cops thinking something happened to me.”
“Your family loves you,” he says, his voice neutral, a note of wonder in its depths.
“They do.” I smile at him as I get up. “And I was making them dinner. I really hope they got the lasagna out of the oven.”
“Lasagna,” he whispers, and his stomach growls. Then suddenly he sits up. “Fuck. Buddy. Haven’t fed him today.”
Aw. This boy...
“I’ll feed him tomorrow. And I’ll pass by to give you the pills. Look, is there someone I can call? Someone who can look after you until you feel better?”
He just shakes his head.
