His forehead tips to mine—light, easy—so we’re sharing the same small pocket of air. His nose grazes my cheek, a careful nudge.
“You’re warm,” he adds, even softer now. Drowsy honesty. “Smell good, too.”
Welp. It’s official.
I’m done breathing.
I should pretend to be asleep. Pretend I didn’t hear that.Pretend I’m not absolutely melting inside this tank top that is very very is see-through.Why do I do this to myself?
His massive paw rests on my back now, sliding beneath my shirt.
Fingers splay wide, his hand is warm and heavy, settling between my shoulder blades before tracing the curve of my spine in a slow, absent circle.
My whole body goes taut.
Is this an accident? Is he dreaming?
Doesn’t feel like it…
He’s half-asleep. His breathing is even. Muscles loose. But that hand… surely that hand knowsexactlywhat it’s doing.
And then, like gravity has opinions, he tugs me closer.
Pulls my body in so we’re spooning…
turner
. . .
My arm goes around Poppy’s waist.
She’s warm. Soft. Still.
My hand shifts on her stomach, thumb brushing a lazy circle against her skin. I tell myself I’m just comfortable. That this is about comfort. Warmth. Sleep.
Not want.
Definitely not need.
Then she makes a soft sound in her throat, some sleepy exhale of contentment, and my body answers before my brain has a chance to shut it down.
Don’t move your hand off her stomach, don’t move your hand off her stomach, don’t?—
Too late.
I slide my palm lower. Just an inch.
Maybe two?
Enough to feel the curve of her hip, the bare skin there—warm, smooth, addictive.
My throat tightens as I drag my fingers back up, slow and deliberate, because I’m a fucking dumbass with zero impulse control and a growing list of regrets all beginning with her name.
“Poppy.”
“Hm?”
“You smell good…”
