Shifting my leg the slightest bit, I confirm he’s still wearing boxers which is at least one mercy from above. However, he’s definitely shirtless.
And,oh my God, he was right—his body is a furnace.
I assess the situation. One, his body on mine brings all kinds of memories flooding back that I should not be focusing on right now. Two, Connor warned me this could happen. Three, I hate it when he’s right.
I could wake him, be cavalier about the whole thing and move onto another subject as quickly as possible.OrI could sneak out of the bed and he’d never have to know.
Option two is risky, but it’s the only way to spare him the humiliationandsalvage my pride.
Connor’s fingers twitch, grazing my rapidly hardening nipple and I briefly consider secret option number three: offer my body as a willing sacrifice in his unconscious grope fest.
Stop, Gretchen. Pride. Do it for your pride!
Holding in a deep breath, I shift my head toward the edge of the bed—one inch, then two—my torso following suit. With the trunk of my body separated from his chest, I use the arm trapped between our bodies to press up on my elbow.
My head is barely off the pillow when Connor squeezes my boob like his own personal stress ball, pulls me back down, and tucks me even tighter to his body than I was before. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles in a sleepy haze, totally oblivious to reality.
Void of ideas and motivation to try again—thank you, boob hand—I close my eyes and pray for sleep to find me once more.
I’ve only begun to drift off when Connor stirs, head burrowing in my neck. His contented hum vibrates against my throat.
Then, he stills.
I hold my breath, braced for impact, as he slowly—slowly—raises his head. Cloudy with sleep, his gaze runs up and down the bed, pausing momentarily here and there—his hands, his position, his empty side of the mattress. The wheels of his brain crank and turn and I can’t do anything but wait for him to catch up. I certainly can’t move with him damn near on top of me.
Cavalier, Gretchen. Look alive.
Something like six days later, he finally swivels his head, meeting my calm, composed eyes.See, everything’s fine.Connor blinks as reality hits him and he bolts from the bed in a frenzy. “Shit!”
It’s not the time to notice how his boxers hug his muscular thighs or the very obvious hard-on tucked behind the cotton material. Nope, definitely don’t see that. “Connor, calm down. It’s fine.”
“Fine?” he shrieks. “No. It’s not fine, Gretch! My hand was—”He doesn’t finish that thought but the dramatic gesticulating toward my chest finishes it for him.
I pull myself to a seated position. “Yes, your hand was here, your leg was there,” I gesture accordingly, “and guess what? I’m fine.We’refine. I’m not mad. Nobody died. The world goes on.”
He hears nothing. Fingers rake through his hair, yanking on the ends until they stand at full attention. He lowers his hands to his hips and sighs at the ceiling. I try to hold it in, I really do, but a disheveled, discombobulated Connor is too funny not to laugh at.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“I am absolutely laughing at you.”
“This isn’t funny,” he says, but I do spy with my little eye the smirk tugging at his mouth.
“For the record, I tried to climb out of bed earlier to save you this embarrassment, but you weren’t having it.”
“How kind of you,” he says. “Wait, what do you mean I ‘wasn’t having it’?”
“Well, you squeezed my boob and asked for five more minutes.”
I think he stops breathing. With his wide eyes and slacked jaw, I have to bite my lip to keep a straight face. “I squeezed…your boob.”
Thatis where I lose it. Loud, from-the-belly, howling laughter roars out of me. “That you did, old man.”
“I’m so sorry, Gretch,” he says with a look of genuine concern that should sober me, but I’m too far gone.
“Connor,” I wheeze, “would you stop already? I said it’s fine.”
“I just can’t believe you’re laughing.”
