She inhales a breathy little snore, and I realize she’s fallen asleep.
I keep stroking her foot, kneading the fine, elegant muscles, not wanting to disrupt her or wake her. Then I set her foot down gently, watching to see if she moves, but she doesn’t. Crawling up the bed, I ease some of the pillows out from behind her so there’s only one left. She stirs and makes a small whimpering sound.
“Shh. Lie down.”
She obeys, not opening her eyes, and I cover her by folding the bedclothes in half over her. She curls down into the cocoon I’ve made for her, snuffling. My chest gets tight.
I’m about to extricate myself from her bed so I can cross to my own when her hand snakes out and grabs my arm.
“Eden,” I whisper.
I try to unfurl her fingers, but she won’t let go.
She settles more fully into her nest with a little humming sound.
I’ll wait it out. She’ll fall deeper asleep and let me go, and then I can get up. I lie down on the pillows I’ve liberated from her, prepared to be patient.
22
Eden
Iwake in the dark and for a long moment don’t know where I am. I’m curled on my side, and there’s something delightfully warm behind me and a heavy weight across my body.
It takes me a moment to realize that the warm object is Rhys and the weight is his arm wrapped over me. His hand is tucked near one of my breasts—not touching. My nipple tightens in recognition.
There are layers of blankets between our bodies, a sort of sleeping bag he made for me by folding the covers in half.
He’s breathing evenly, sleeping.
I fell asleep to the bliss of his hands on my feet, the gorgeous sense of being cared for. I remember him adjusting my pillows and urging me to lie down, his voice reaching me from a distance, like we were underwater. Halfway between asleep and awake, I knew I didn’t want him to leave, and I reached for him.
He stayed.
I should wake him up. I should kick him out of my bed.
Except that’s the last thing I want to do. I want to curl closer, to ease back into his warmth, to tuck my backside against his hips. To wrap his arm tighter and nudge his hand around the curve of my breast.
I do none of those things, but I do get out of bed and slide back in under the quilt and sheet. I fold his half of the bedclothes over him, so we’re both covered, under the bedding together. Then I settle myself into the big spoon of his body, close my eyes and drift, wrapped in his warmth.
Light poursthrough the crack in the blinds the next time I wake, and I jolt into full consciousness, checking the clock. Whew—plenty of time to make our flight.
Rhys is still behind me, but sometime in the night he edged closer. His arm is still over me, his chest against my back, all solid muscle. And like the answer to my middle-of-the-night fantasy, his hips have found my backside, and I can feel the entire length of him, morning hard, pressed against me.
Holy crap, he’s thick.
I want that.
Inside me.
I don’t move even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to rock my hips, tilt back against him.
I don’t move, even though I really, really want to squeeze my thighs together to ease the clamoring need in my core and clit.
I don’t move, but I’m so, so tempted to slide my hand under the edge of the skirt I fell asleep in, up to the edge of the red thong I couldn’t resist putting on.
I could tease myself, just a little. I could slick a finger and run it across my clit a few times.
But before I can do it—or decide it’s a terrible idea—Rhys stirs behind me. Groans. Presses closer, erection perfectly lined up against my ass.
