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The world grows heavy once more as sleep beckons me back. My thoughts splintering into nonsense.
I like this,I think. Not even sure what I like, but it has the ache that’s been in my chest for days finally easing up, breaking off into something softer. Easier to withstand.
My hand slides up Waylon’s bare chest.
His heart pounds and pounds and pounds, a steady rhythm I’m well familiar with.
“It gets easier,”Mason said.
And as I lay here, cuddled with the boy I love, his heart beating sturdily against my palm as sleep drags me under once more…
I can believe it does.
Thistime,it’sthequiet strum of guitar strings that wakes me. Gently, like finger-strokes over my hair. Or a breeze fluttering in through the window.
And still I bury my face into the pillow and groan.
“Morning, Sunshine.”
I reach up and flip him off.
He chuckles.
Okay,so I’m not a morning person. Never claimed to be. It just didn’t take until we were dating and practically living together for him to figure out just how much of a bear I am in the morning, especially before coffee.
He loves to give me shit for it. For such a grump, he’s quite infuriatingly chipper in the mornings. It’s like he sucks all the happy out of me while I sleep, converting it into energy.
Fucking incubus.
Music continues to fill the room, slightly louder now that he knows I’m awake.
I don’t recognize the song, so either it’s a new one they’ve been working on, or it’s new period. It wouldn’t be the first time I woke up to Waylon playing around with something. It would seem early mornings, or coming right out of a heavy sleep, are when inspiration strikes hardest.
There’s also the fact the sheet is bunched at the bottom of the bed, leaving my naked ass bare to the world. I’m not conceited enough to think he’s waxing poetic about my body right now, but also, I am that conceited. I have a good body, a muse-worthy ass even, perhaps—I work hard in the gym for it—and I have it on good authority he loves it.
I just might lovehisa little bit more. I just prefer to fuck him senseless than try to spin sonnets about it.Talented fucker,I grouse inwardly without any heat. He’s got more musical talent in his pinkie nail than I’ve got in my entire body.
Yawning into my arm, I finally roll over and push up into a seated position. Running my hands through my hair, I wince when I hit a couple snags. It’s gotta look wild from going to sleep with it wet.
A quick glance at Waylon shows his hair is all curly and tousled too.
“What?” he says, looking at me through hooded eyes. He’s still shirtless, but he threw on a pair of gray sweatpants.Pity.
Teeth gnawing into my bottom lip, I shake my head.
“The guys dropped off food while we were sleeping,” he eventually says, fingers stilling on his guitar. He jerks his head toward the bag rumpled up at the bottom of the bed. “I ate mine already. Sorry. But I got you coffee from the lobby.”
Scratching my jaw, I reach for the to-go cup he gestures to on the nightstand.
“It’s probably cold by now,” he tries to warn me softly, but I’m already guzzling it down.
“Don’t care,” I rasp, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. Blinking a couple times, I screw my eye shut against the orange sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains. “What time is it?”
“A little after one.”
I whip my head at him, eyes bugging out. “In the afternoon?”
He smiles and nods. “Yeah.”
