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The task of cleaning up after dinner got his body moving again, but his brain still felt sluggish. Chloe, on the other hand, was going a mile a minute.
“So your oldest brother, Trevor, is an LAPD homicide cop, married to Kylie, who owns a yoga studio?” Chloe followed the question up by handing him their dirty plates and utensils.
“Right.” He nodded, rinsed the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher.
She folded a new sheet of aluminum foil over the half-empty casserole dish and placed it in the fridge. “Logan is your younger brother, the rock climber. He lives in Colorado and founded a climbing-gear company. And he’s married to…hmm…” She bit her lip.
Michael shut the fridge door so they stood face to face. “And he’s married to?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Um…oh… I know. He’s not married. I got that right didn’t I? You, sir”—she poked his chest—“have to drink.”
“I’ve created a monster.” Still, he picked up his glass and drained it. “No more. Your slave requests mercy.” He took her hand and dragged her to the couch, and then pulled her down beside him.
“My slave… I do like the sound of that. I may have to change your nickname from Major Hottie to slave.” Her wide smile and the extra bounce she took when she sat told him he hadn’t completely cornered the market on tipsy.
“Since when is my nickname Major Hottie?”
“Lynne came up with it, I think.”
“Your recruiter?” The idea of his hotness being assessed by a complete stranger left him feeling a little…fazed. Heat crawled up his neck.
“Why, Major, you’re blushing.”
“I am not. Marines don’t blush.”
She giggled and pressed her palms to his flushed cheeks. “Oh, sorry, my mistake, Major Hottie.”
“I think I prefer ‘slave.’”
“You don’t say?” She giggled again. “What are your slave duties?”
“Entirely your call, Mistress, but might I suggest you’re looking a little tense right here?” He rested his hands on her shoulders and kneaded the muscles.
Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “You’re going to give me a massage?”
“Sure.” But he also really liked the idea of her body all pressed up against his, so he reclined and pulled her down until she lay on top of him. “I learned my techniques from the best.”
She raised her head and eyed him suspiciously. “The position you’ve chosen is certainly innovative.”
He ran his hand along the back of her neck and lowered her head so her cheek nestled against his chest. The warm weight of her breasts rested against his diaphragm. He found himself taking deeper breaths than necessary and smoothing his palms down her back in slow, even strokes.
She snuggled into him a little deeper. “Mmm. That’s nice.”
He could not agree more. Content to drift, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of her draped all over him like an absurdly sexy blanket. Just for a minute…
A pounding noise jackhammered through his skull and rattled his brain.
“What the…?”
A soft, groggy groan sounded from somewhere close to his ear and warm breath tickled his temple. Chloe.
He snapped his eyes open, winced at the daylight streaming through the living room window, and took stock. They were still on the sofa with Chloe sprawled over him, limp and boneless. He had one hand tangled in her hair and the other down the back of her shorts. Her tank top had worked its way up her torso during the night, leaving a smooth expanse of bare skin, and, just above the low, wash-whitened waistband of her shorts, the greenish-blue tip of a hummingbird wing.
The pounding started again, and a familiar voice yelled through the door, “Hey, man, it’s Dane. You okay in there?”
“Fine,” he tried to reply, but the word left his dry, scratchy throat like a weak cough. Chloe groaned again, an incoherent protest against all the noise, and snuggled her face against his neck.
The next thing he knew, his front door swung open and Dane walked in. “You know your door is”—his friend’s voice trailed off as he got an eyeful of Chloe and Michael entwined on the couch, and froze—“unlocked.”
