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But my nightshirt suddenly felt excitingly bare, small and flimsy under that hot blue gaze.
“Um, hi,” I said again. “What are you reading?”
Because the big man had a book clasped in his hand, one that he shut, scrutinizing the cover.
“Just the latest Robert Ludlum,” he rumbled, “nothing heavy, just a spy novel.”
And I nodded.
“Oh yeah, I love Robert Ludlum,” I agreed. “Especially the new stuff written by a ghostwriter because Robert Ludlum actually passed away a while back. Wait, you knew that, right?” I stopped, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t give it all away.”
And the big man threw back his head and chuckled.
“Yeah, I knew, the ghost isn’t a ghost, his name is front and center on the covers, so it’s obvious. So no worries, you didn’t burst any bubbles or pull skeletons out of the closet. But yeah, I like Ludlum’s old stuff best, written by Ludlum himself and not his ghostwriter. It’s all about Soviet-era espionage, but when you’re an old school dude like me, it’s all good.”
And I flushed then.
“No, I like it too,” I said boldly. “Sure, it happened before I was born, but I read about the Berlin Wall coming down, I love crime fiction set during that era. It’s got repercussions too, what with Putin and the West dueling over influence.”
The big man looked at me curiously then.
“You follow the news?” he asked, eyebrow arched.
And I nodded, still standing over by the door.
“Who couldn’t? What with Russia allegedly gaming the recent elections, truth is stranger than fiction, don’t you think?” I asked with a wry smile. “I thought about majoring in computer science because it’s such a hot topic, but computers aren’t really my thing.”
And the big man chuckled deep in his chest.
“Honey, I don’t think that hackers necessarily go to college and get engineering degrees. I think those mofos started young, tinkering with toasters when they were five, and getting up to no good out of curiosity when they were kids. They’ve been honing their skills for the dark side for a long time, it’s not something college is there to teach.”
And I nodded, stepping closer.
“I totally agree,” I said seriously. “I took a programming class and it was crazy. Even during the first week, it seemed like half the guys already knew the entire textbook backwards and forwards, and I was the only one trying to get through Chapter One. But I think,” and here, I smiled ruefully, “that they were all there for easy A’s. They knew the material already, and Intro to Programming was a dummy course for them.”
Mr. Martin nodded, looking at me closely.
“What did you say you were studying?” he growled. “Come on, up here with me,” he said, patting the space next to him.
And in a flash, I’d scrambled onto the big bed, but instead of sitting in the designated area, I got under the covers next to him, snuggling against that hard male form.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, gasping a bit. Because as predicted, he’d gone commando and when my leg touched his, burrowing between his knees, I felt the brush of his bare cock against my thigh, hard, stiff and aching.
The big man just growled.
“Honey, I’ve been hard the minute you stepped in,” he drawled. “You didn’t think I’d be any other way, did you?”
And I shook my head mutely.
“No, but … I guess I was still surprised,” I whispered, looking deep into those blue eyes.
And Mr. Martin grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it higher around his waist while circling his arm around my back, hauling me close.
“Now baby, what was your major again?” he rumbled. And the vibrations felt good against my small form, emanating from his chest to permeate through my curvy form. I sighed, in heaven, burrowing against him, breasts pressed against the side of his torso, nestling my head on his shoulder.
“I’m majoring in Communications,” I said shyly. “But don’t you think this is weird? Me and you, um, together like this?”
He shot a look my way, craning his head to glance down me. God, he was so close, I could almost lick that square jaw, press my lips to that bronzed neck.
And Mr. Martin grinned, rumbling, “No, feels fine to me,” he rumbled. “You?”
I thought for a moment, curves pressed against his big form. It was comfy this way, so warm and toasty, he seemed to radiate heat and I was drawn to him, loving the hardness, the sensuality. And I loved how I already had a leg crossed over his intimately, my girls pressed against him, not an inch separating us. But what man could handle a conversation when we were entwined like lovers?
“I’m just concerned,” I said in a small voice. “I mean, I know you’re hard and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Do you want me to, um, do something about it?”
