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Sebastian is very…hard. Everywhere. I feel lean muscle. The bones in his hips. I didn’t pay close attention to his body when I was on his balcony because, well, I was trying very hard not to, but now I can’t help but feel proof that he’s clearly thinner than he typically is, not leaned up in the healthy way like Ren gets when they ramp up conditioning before the season. The harmful kind. The I-drink-and-don’t-eat kind.
It’s like the moment I saw the smudges under his eyes, saw his hair sticking up funny before he smoothed it back. I feel how human he is. And I feel this inexplicable urge to hug him. To drag him to Mom and Dad’s and shove a massive plate of Swedish comfort food in front of him.
“Ziggy.” His voice is tight as he pulls his hips back. Thanks to gravity, mine follow suit, shifting in tandem with his. It’s how I’d move if I were on top for a wholly different reason, if there was nothing between us, a lazy, long roll of my hips. Unfortunately, because I have only panties on—this pair’s actually comfortable—I feel much more than I’d like, the thick length of him, tucked inside his jeans, rubbing right against me.
I scramble off frantically, nearly falling on my butt. “Sorry. I… Sorry.” I clear my throat.
Seb eases upright on the bed, still holding my jeans. Then he stands, his gaze pinned on mine. With how small my “bedroom” area is, we’re left standing nearly chest to chest.
He blows out a slow breath and stares down at my jeans in his hands. “Why do they feel weird?”
I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to give someone who’s so far proven entirely unworthy of my trust this confession about my sensory needs.
But something about his expression as he peers up beneath those thick dark lashes makes the words melt out of me and spill into the air. “They itch my ankles. They used to fit, but then I had a growth spurt, right before college, and now they’re too short. But they just felt so good. They’re the only jeans that have ever felt good.”
He studies my face, quiet, shifting my jeans in his hands. Then he glances down, again, examining the interior, the seams, the label stamped on the fabric. “And if they were shorts?”
I frown. “Shorts?”
“It is eighty degrees outside, Sigrid. It’s this season right now called summer, heard of it?”
“Says the man wearing pants.” I poke his armpit, a classic tickle spot that seems to work, because he swears and twists away.
“Easy does it, Sporty Spice.”
For that little moniker, I go for his other armpit, but this time he catches my hand, clasping it hard. I stare up at him, heart pounding in my chest. His thumb, it’s sliding along the inside of my palm, in steady, lulling circles. Circles I’d enjoy very much, elsewhere on my body. My nipples tighten. Heat spills, low in my belly, and settles into a soft, pulsing ache.
I knew I was in over my head with him. Sucking in a deep breath, I press my thighs together and will that ache away.
“How would you make them shorts?” I’m wildly proud of how steady my voice comes out.
Sebastian lifts an eyebrow. “Got a pair of scissors?”
I pull my hand away, and this time he lets go. I take my sweet time finding the scissors in my kitchen drawer to cool myself down, then offer them to him, handles first. Sebastian lays the scissors on the counter, then steps closer to me.
Staring at him, I tell my heart to stop speeding up. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. By standing still.”
And then he kneels. My stomach plummets at the sight.
“Step in,” he says, holding the jeans open for me.
“Step in?”
He peers up. “To wear them while I do this. Unless it’ll bother you too much. Having you wear them will help me figure out where to cut them, but I can hold them up against you instead and figure it out that way, too. It’s less accurate, though.”
I just need him not to be down on his knees in front of me anymore, his head right at my pelvis. I’d suffer a dozen jeans that feel weird at the ankles to get this over with before my libido hijacks my brain again and makes my thoughts devolve into a full-on fantasy about what it might be like for Sebastian Gauthier to kneel in front of me for a very different, much more pleasurable reason.
“I can do it.” Clutching the counter, I step into the jeans quickly, then take over from him when he lifts them past my knees. Our fingers brush, and I jolt. Sebastian drops his hands away sharply, pressing them against his thighs as he sits back on his heels. He looks away, staring at my bookshelves.
Waiting for some snide comment about my reading preferences, I tug the jeans up higher, under my robe, before I get them zipped and buttoned.
“Okay,” I tell him.
He lifts his eyes, sharp silver. His throat works. “Can you part your robe over your jeans, so I can see where to cut—”
I lift the robe, bunching it at my stomach.
