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But I didn’t have a nightmare.
My teeth didn’t chatter with cold.
I just lay there staring up at the ceiling for hours, saying nothing, doing nothing, trying to think of nothing.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.
And woke up to his hand on me.
Well, just on my arm.
But it counted.
“Are we burning daylight already?” I asked, voice groggy as my hand scrubbed at my tired, dry eyes.
“Just about,” he said, giving me one of those soft smiles.
Soft smiles when it was too early to have my guards up to fend off the feelings that bloomed in me from seeing them.
“There had better be coffee if you’re waking me up before the sun is even up,” I warned him, noticing his hand hadn’t moved from my arm, that he was absentmindedly – or possibly deliberately, it was impossible to tell – stroking over the skin there.
“There’s coffee,” he assured me.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, finally fully focusing on him. “Did you shower already?”
“Hit the gym downstairs, grabbed coffee and breakfast, and showered, yeah,” he agreed.
“You’re a robot,” I concluded. “That’s the only explanation.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I’d just as soon rather not,” I said, making a little chuckle move through him.
“Don’t make me go all drill sergeant on you,” he warned.
“I can take it,” I insisted.
Then he was on his feet, ripping the sheets off, making the cool air of the room prickle over my exposed skin.
And I mean exposed.
Because I must have been tossing around in my sleep. His tee was all kinds of bunched around my waist, showing off a few inches of my belly… and all of my legs. And the obnoxiously feminine baby pink silk and lace panties I had on.
“Fuck,” Gunner hissed under his breath, his entire body going tense, like he was actively trying to keep it under control, like he was doing his best to hold back.
Instinctively, my legs shifted, dragging his attention up the bare length of them, eyes getting more hooded, hand curling into a fist.
And me, yeah, I had no idea what to say, to do, how to react to his reaction.
I mean, on a logical level anyway.
My body, it knew what it wanted, how to react.
My skin flushed, pink taking over the normal paleness down my arms and legs, and while I couldn’t see it, I bet my face and neck as well.
My breasts felt heavier, the nipples getting hard instantly.
A deep, throbbing pulsation started between my legs as my breathing went shallow and too fast, matching my heartbeat.
“Just give me a reason,” he demanded, sounding almost, I don’t know, desperate? A man like him, desperate? That seemed almost impossible.
“A reason?” Was that my voice? It didn’t sound like my voice. It sounded throaty, needy, foreign to my own ears.
“Just give me one reason to turn and walk away right now,” he pleaded, his breathing seeming to go as shallow as my own.
I meant to stay silent.
I didn’t want to give him a reason.
I didn’t want him to turn and walk away.
I wanted him to make good on the promise in his eyes.
But my stupid, stupid mouth found words.
Ridiculous, nonsensical words.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
Yep.
That was what I said.
I swear it surprised me as much as him.
He looked blank for a second, then a small smile pulled at his lips.
“Guess that will work,” he said, then turned and did what he said. He walked away.
Away away.
He left the room.
Leaving me there on the bed, body in chaos, mind berating myself for being so darn stupid.
What was wrong with me?
Why would I ruin what I really wanted?
Even if making out without brushing your teeth was pretty gross.
“Ugh,” I growled at myself, actually kicking my feet against the mattress in frustration.
What was wrong with me?
I wanted it.
He wanted it.
The moment was right.
And I screwed it up.
No wonder I hadn’t been laid in years.
I had become completely oblivious in how to handle interactions with the opposite sex that wasn’t work-related.
And, chances were, now that I royally messed this up, there would never be another opportunity.
On the one hand, I understood that even wanting to go there was insane for me. I wasn’t a huge fan of casual sexual encounters. And, well, he was most certainly not my type.
But maybe that was the appeal here.
He wasn’t my type, but I wanted him. This situation I found myself in meant that all it could ever be was a fling, so there was no worry about the repercussions of my actions.
Hell, even as I was trying to justify it to myself, I didn’t believe it.
It was more than that.
There was more than that here.
If there were time to do so, I knew that this had the potential for depth. Actual depth. The kind where I could tell him – the only person in the world who would hear this story – that when I got my period the first time at eleven, my mom threw a box of tampons and condoms at me, telling me that the boys would be sniffing around me like a bitch in heat, and that she wasn’t raising No brat of mine because I didn’t make him wrap it up.
