Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(83)

“Can’t sleep?” I yawned, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. It wasn’t yet 5:00 AM.

“Did I wake you?” Dan crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, releasing a laugh that sounded frustrated. “My sleep is all fucked up. It feels like moon o’clock and I’m on the south pole of Mars.”

I could just decipher his outline. He still wore the pants and T-shirt he’d been in earlier. “Maybe you’re wearing too many clothes, those pants can’t be comfortable.” I snuggled under the covers even as I flipped the blanket open on his side, hoping he’d climb in again. “What do you usually wear to sleep?”

He hesitated, then said, “Usually nothing. Or just my boxers.”

Quite abruptly, I was awake.

I was more than awake.

I was officially alert.

“Oh.” My heart beat double time, images of a birthday-suit-wearing Dan danced in my vision. I mean, he wasn’t dancing, but the images of him were.

Dan seemed to consider me before finally asking, “Do you mind if I—”

“No, I don’t mind!” I blurted, and then cringed as soon as the words erupted. Grateful for the scant illumination provided by the city and moonlight through the window, I cursed myself silently for the overly eager response.

It wasn’t that I was afraid he’d change his mind about us, or want to back out if I let my puerile flag fly. More like, I didn’t want to subject him—or anyone—to the puerile flag. I wanted to be someone thoughtful, who didn’t blurt, who didn’t react without careful consideration. I wanted to be sophisticated and mature.

And, mostly, I felt I was firmly on the road to becoming that thoughtful, considerate, even-tempered person. Except, apparently, when asked my opinion about spending time with Dan, or Dan being naked. Then I morphed into an immature dork.

To his credit, he didn’t seem to mind my outburst. His luscious lips curved into an irresistible smile and he stood, holding my gaze, his eyes glinting in the grayish light. Reaching for his shirt’s hem, he pulled it off, and my hands fisted in the covers.

Now I was cursing the inadequacy of the scant moonlight, and my heart was beating triple time.

Shadows of ink swirled over the bulk of his shoulders and strong arms. Unable to see the details clearly, I could tell the designs at his neck were the tip of the tattoo iceberg. Smoky lines hinted at intricate patterns, all of which ended at his chest, his toned stomach and sides had been left untouched.

I’d been so distracted by his torso, I didn’t realize he’d already removed his pants—but kept on his boxer briefs—until he was climbing into bed next to me.

My heart gave a little jump as one muscular leg slid against mine, the fine hairs an exhilarating texture, the weight of him substantial, his chest a formidable wall. He pulled me against his body, placing a light kiss on my lips, and then leaned slightly away.

“Hey,” his voice rumbled. I felt the vibration of his words, and everything about him felt so solid and intense and electrifying.

I told myself to calm down. I told myself not to be a puerile dork. I told myself to be sophisticated.

“Hi,” I responded, my tone steady, firm, not dorky. “Are you tired?”

He shook his head, his eyes moving to my lips. “Are you?”

His knee bent then, his upper leg brushing lightly against the apex of my thighs, causing my breath to hitch as a spark ignited at my center. I told myself to breathe in, and then breathe out, each inhale and exhale precise, least I do or say or blurt something embarrassing and ruin the moment.

Don’t be a ruiner.

But the resultant spark of heat became a multifaceted thing, curling and twisting, a knot low in my belly. Tendrils of hot, raw sensation expanded with each of my measured breaths, his leg’s firm press, making thought difficult and speaking impossible.

Therefore, I shook my head, answering his last question wordlessly and braced myself for the impact of his smile. What I didn’t prepare for was the smolder and intent in his eyes. The obscuring darkness made everything feel closer, weightier, louder, like a whispered secret.

Dan’s hand slid down my arm to my hip, gripping me; his head bent, his tongue and teeth loving my neck. I closed my eyes, taking another careful breath, and felt . . . okay.

Worry, mostly absent until now, tightened my throat, and ballooned slowly in my chest, because I wanted to feel more than just okay. I wanted to feel great. Anxiety was a different kind of burn, like frostbite, and it unfolded itself. A silent monster, standing and stomping out the spark in my abdomen and the feelings of okayness, replacing everything with nothing.

No chill, no warmth, just a sudden void of agitation.