One of the tiny naps began to turn her blood to lead, nonsensical dreams beginning to unfold.
Cole growled softly and sat up. He leaned over and tapped the screen of his phone. “Alright. Close enough. It’s five o’clock.”
Trace jolted back awake, miniature monkeys screeching and throwing their teacups on the floor of the castle. She rubbed her hands over her face and pouted, grateful to not have to sink further into that bizarre dream. The one where she’d groped him was much more satisfying, albeit more dangerous. “Thank fucking goodness,” she grumbled. “Coffee.”
Morningwoodsuckingallthe blood from his brain. Cole wasn’t nearly ready for conversation or any sort of decision making. He was surprised he didn’t pass out as he stood, carefully angled away from her to hide the tent-pole that wouldn’t quit since getting a taste of her touch. Hell, she’d probably been very aware of it, as he’d shifted his groin out of the snuggle every time he realized he was drifting back off to sleep and pressing against her again.
Throbbing so damn hard, he mumbled an acknowledgement to her coffee request, but kept moving to the safety of the bathroom.
He flicked on the light and sneered at his reflection. Hair wild, he was rumpled and sleep deprived. So the one-bed thing wasn’t unfounded. If Trace had made a conscious move, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
The sizzling zing of her hand on his abdomen, slipping down and her fingertips brushing over the length of him. At first, he’d thought it was some bizarre dream, caught in a blizzard with Trace, calling out for her and unable to find her, then he found her and warmed her up and… consciousness had flowed slowly into his mind as skin met skin, and he realized she was waking with him.
The sink outside the bathroom turned on, and he could hear Trace brushing her teeth, the coffee pot sputtering its start.
Not a chance in hell he could pee in his current predicament, and no fucking way was he relieving things with her right there. He flicked on the shower and stepped in.
Ice cold water shocked his skin. Goosebumps prickled over his entire body at once.
A cry of surrender rose in his chest, but he swallowed the shock.
Numbness began to set in, at long fucking last. Quickly, he ran soap over his goosebump-roughened skin.
As soon as things painfully and fully calmed, he shut off the water and dried with the plush white hotel towel. Wrapping it around his waist, he stepped out and found Trace bent over, butt sticking out toward him as she sifted through her suitcase.
Puffing out his cheeks, he took a calming breath, averting his gaze so he didn’t have to go back in for another cold shower.
“Coffee’s ready.” She surfaced with a pair of leggings and a fresh workout top, and sports bra in hand. Minimal eye contact, she glanced a look at him, bit her lip, and slipped past him, leaving him standing clueless and more uncertain than ever.
While Trace used the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and tossed on some workout shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Necessary conversation only. That was probably safer than acknowledging what had happened. What could have happened.
He grabbed a pair of Cliff bars from his bag and set one out for her, then stood in front of the windows and munched the quit hit of carbs. Too foggy and disoriented, he alternated chugs of coffee with the sticky snack.
Trace came out in her workout clothes a moment later, opening her snack and nodding toward the door. He hooked a finger through the handles of their water bottles on the way out.
As if ordering them back to bed, the wind pushed against the door. He shoved harder and stepped outside first. Amber lights glowed along the exterior walkway in the pre-dawn haze. The hotel was silent, as all the couples on a weekend getaway probably needed sleep after productive nights.
He paused as they neared the room in the corner. Not everyone took advantage of a quiet morning by sleeping in.
Trace turned at the top of the steps and hooked a question in her pause.
Wicked grin curling up the corners of his mouth, he nodded toward the door. “Listen,” he whispered.
Trace stepped up and stood next to him, leaning without getting too close to the door. Eyes wide, she slapped her hand over her mouth and giggled softly. “Early risers in there,” she whispered through the giggle.
“Wonder who it is.” The door rattled rhythmically against the jamb in a classic bang-bang-bang. He waggled his eyebrows playfully at Trace. “Against the door, this early in the morning? Overachievers.”
She snorted a laugh and said, “The bride and groom. Apparently, they are ignoring the tradition about not sleeping together the night before the wedding.”
Stuffing the last bite of Cliff bar in his mouth, he grinned through chipmunk cheeks. “That’s a stupid tradition anyway.”
As they moved down the steps, she whispered back to him, “I figured against-the-door was only an early-in-the-relationship sort of thing. Before the magic faded to a simmer.”
“More than a simmer happening in there. Good rhythm.”
“True,” she said lightly as they hit the bottom step.
The rain drenched them the moment they hit the asphalt of the parking lot. Not a soul awake—aside from the banging bride and groom—they walked quietly to the hotel gym.
