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“Stupid thorn,” she mumbles against my skin.
I bite my cheek to not laugh. For a little longer, I want this side of her. To see her in the faint, dim light creeping in from the edge of the curtain. To watch her while she sleeps. While I can look at her features without restraint, without fear of being caught. Her toffee locks with hints of sunshine. Matching lashes fanned beneath her lower lid to the apple of her cheek. The three small freckles lateral to her right eye. The soft line of her jaw and curve of her chin. And lips so soft and full and kissable.
Licking my lips, I picture what it would be like to kiss Shelly. To give in to the urge, the desire, the need to feel her lips pressed to mine.
I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over. Allow myself to daydream about how warm and supple and perfect her kiss would feel. How demanding she’d be. How demanding I’d be in return. What her moan would sound like when I drag her bottom lip between mine. What she’d taste like when she finally bloomed like a flower and let me in.
Her fingers on my lower back curl slightly, tug at my cotton shirt, and I stop breathing. My eyes fly open and I think of anything except kissing Shelly. Because fuck my life, I’m hard.
Sure, if she wakes now, I can pretend to do the same and play it off as morning wood. This is most definitelynotmorning wood.
What is the one thing that automatically sends my mood south? Is an instant buzzkill?
My mother. Mom, Mom, Mom.
And thank god it works. Just as my erection softens, Shelly opens her eyes. She groans and leans back. A smile slowly plumps her cheeks.
Without a doubt, this is my favorite view of Shelly. Soft and unkempt and not a worry marring her beautiful face. Perfect.
Then the corners of her mouth sag. Her brows wrinkle at the middle. Pupils go wide as realization dawns. That she is wrapped around me tighter than a koala. That she is on my couch, in my house, and we fell asleep.
Before I open my mouth to say everything is okay, she bolts upright.
“Oh my god!” She looks around the room so quick it makes me dizzy. “Oh my god,” she whispers and slaps a hand over her eyes.
I sit up beside her, rest my palm between her shoulder blades, and rub small, slow circles. “Shelly, it’s okay. We fell asleep.”
She drops her hand. “Shit. What time is it?”
Crawling across the room, I fetch my phone from the table and tap the screen. “Five thirty-eight.”
A groan spills from her lips. “I need to go. The shop. I have to go home and shower and change and eat and—”
“Shelly”—I add more pressure to my touch—“it’s okay. You have time. Breathe.”
And she does. She inhales through her nose and out through her mouth. Then does it again.
“Better?”
She nods.
“Before you go, let me at least make you breakfast.”
“I don’t—”
“Please. Promise I’ll be quick.” Her brows twitch. “I’ll even pack it to go if you want.”
“Sure. Okay. But only if it’s quick.”
“Pinkie promise.”
She gives me her beautiful smile. Warmth floods the center of my chest, my heart thumping in a new pattern. And after I rise off the couch, before my brain can stop me, I bend at the waist and press my lips to her crown.
Neither of us moves. My pulse shifts again. Beats more erratically. Fear jolts my nerves as a dose of cortisol enters my bloodstream.
I took it too far. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Then she reaches for my hand, lifts her eyes, and shows me her rosy cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”
