“Yes.” My mind was sifting through any option to be close to him. “Maybe the weekend thing would be kind of a solution? Enjoy now, no strings, and we walk out of here Sunday as friends, and it never happens again.”
“You’re not a no strings kinda woman. I can tell.”
Truth, but I was tossing common sense and all undergarments out the window from now on. Sayonara, smart Fern. Hello, good-time girl. “You don’t know. I might be a lady who likes a little hanky-panky here and there without ever looking back.”
His laughter bounced off the walls. “You’re pants are so on fire.”
I turned and popped my elbows up on his big old chest. “I’m not wearing any.”
“You don’t think I’m well aware that those thin little lacy panties are the only thing between us? That the thought isn’t eating away at me?”
“Well, maybe?—”
“No. Solid no. Things happen when lines are crossed.”
I went through the file cabinet in my mind and knew he was an expert on crossing lines. The TMZ story that went viral regarding pop star sensation Sierra Wyatt and their whirlwind thing. The leaked photos of Paris runway model Elea, yes, she’s one of those who only require one name, and Gabe rolling around on a private yacht that wasn’t so private in the Caribbean.
While I may never compare to any of those women, I was in bed with him. Me.
He kissed my cheek. “Why don’t you just get some sleep? Maybe our little session here will help your brain shut off so you can rest.”
“But what about you?” My cranium was doing nothing to shut itself off.
“What about me?”
“I may have a few ideas that might help you sleep.”
I could see his head shake out of the corner of my eye. “You’re killing me.”
“Alrighty then.” I kissed his neck. “Maybe I have another little option.”
He growled as I kissed his chest before going lower and took away a little of his control.
Hours later, I lay on my side with his arms wrapped around me while I waited for the sun to peek over the horizon. I’d been there for an hour, unable to sleep, so instead listened to the soft breathing of the man who was perfect in every way. Yes, I was in trouble, knew it, but was throwing all caution to the wind, or tornado, that was Gabe.
I snuck out of bed, which was similar to escaping an octopus, but somehow, he stayed asleep. I stood and watched him like a psycho stalker for a good five minutes before taking a steamy bubble bath that did wonders for my achy legs, each of which had a good four-inch bruise under my knees.
I wish I could say I threw on the first thing I pulled from my suitcase, but no. I finally chose my favorite jeans that made my bum look good, softest burgundy tee, and topped it off with my long black cardigan. Then I used a little foundation and blush before floating down to the kitchen.
I whipped up some pancakes because I figured I couldn’t screw that menu option up too much. While I mixed up the batter, my mind was stirring over the night in bed with Gabe. Thoughts of his hands, lips, and amazing everything made me burn my first batch of flapjacks while I stared off in space. I tossed them in the trash, determined to keep my filthy mind contained to the kitchen. Then I wondered what it would be like to be held against the fridge by Gabe while he had his way with me. I was a hopeless sap.
My heart fluttered when he entered the kitchen, freshly showered in jeans that hung low on his hips, a Minnesota Wild sweatshirt, of course, and bare feet. He had that perfect week of not shaving beard, and my stomach dipped when remembering what that felt like sliding along my skin. Stop it!
“Good morning. How’re you feeling?”
“Headache is gone, and my legs are okay.”
“And you made breakfast?” He came up behind me and pulled my back to his front. I liked it along with his orgasmic cologne that gave me a glorious hug.
“Well, you made me dinner so it’s my turn.”
“I like a girl who takes turns.”
I was happy he couldn’t see the fever his words put in my face. “That’s me…a giver.” How was flirting with him so easy? Gawky Fern suddenly had fun words. He spun me around and kissed my lips that were still a little swollen from our midnight make-out maneuvers.
He took the spatula out of my hand and placed it on the counter while his lips lingered on mine for a minute. I suddenly wanted a seventy-two-hour pass more than anything in my entire life but squirmed out of his grasp. “Don’t make me burn our pancakes.”
He pulled some plates from the cabinet, silverware from a drawer, and did a little dance to the table and sat down.
