As close as I am, I feel it, his body tightening up, the chill between our bodies as he imperceptibly moves away from me.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s Matty’s mom and she died a long time ago. Sweet dreams, baby.” I get a kiss on my mouth (how does he see?) and even though Hunt pulls me closer to him, if feels like we’re miles apart.
I wake up thinking that I must be on the surface of the sun. I’m hot and sweaty. Cracking an eyelid open, I can see why. Hunter MacLaine has wrapped himself around me like the kraken pulverizes a pirate ship. On my back as I am, a heavy arm is wrapped around my rib cage, and his hot breath is on my neck as he’s nuzzled there sometime during the night. A leg is trapping both of mine underneath his. I’m trapped.
Did I mention I’m hot? Like, boiling?
Hunt makes a sleepy snort in my neck, which makes me grin, even as I try and wiggle out from under him. The bastard just winds up closer to me, and really, I’m having a hot flash at twenty-five years old.
“Hunter?” I whisper, rocking my body into his, trying to nudge him awake. “Can you get up now?” I wiggle some more, and an affirmative sound comes out of him, but the kind of affirmative sound that a little kid would do when his Mom tells him to wake up for school. A sound for me to shut up so he can sleep.
“Hunter, I’m dying here. Please, for the love of the Winchesters, can you please get up?” I’m still whispering, but I inject more bite to the words and another body wiggle.
“I think my sugar’s high.” Oh, God. His morning voice. Why can’t nothing he do be gross? It’s not fair to us normal folk, really. His voice is deep and raspy from not being used all night, and as close as we are, he’s pressed up against me, and I can feel the words vibrate in his chest. Wow.
It takes a few seconds for the words to get through my waking-up-with-Hunt haze, since last time we actually slept together, I bolted nice and early to avoid this awkward situation. So not awkward now, except I’m burning alive!
“If you let go of me, I can go get your insulin. But you have to let go, first.”
His arms tighten around me in answer, all yeah, right. “I just want to sleep it off. You don’t have to do anything yet.”
“Fine. But Hunter, I swear to Castiel, I’m going to melt unless you let go of me. Please, have a heart.” A bead of sweat slides down between my boobs. I can feel the hair near my ears and the top of my forehead getting damp. Am I sleeping next to the Human Torch or what?
That affirmative sound again.
“C’mon, let me check on Matty, and I can make us breakfast.”
“I hate eating breakfast,” his voice is still sleepy, but he’s loosened his hold on me a little. Just a little mind you, not enough for freedom. Gah!
“You’re breathing on my neck, and it feels like you’re breathing fire on me!” My voice is rising with every single word, still in a whisper. I have no idea what time it is, as his curtains are drawn, but telling by the light and the lack of total opaqueness of his curtains, it has to be somewhere around eight or nine. Maybe. Whatever.
Did he just bite me? My spine is made of adamantium, and my whole body is doing a great impression of a field-post. What just happened?
“Stay with me.”
I wiggle again, feeling like I’m doing an awful dance to LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem trying to get free. “Could you let go? I’m dying over here.”
“Fucking shit. Why don’t you want to stay in bed with me?”
Thank you baby Jesus - he finally rolls over.
“I’m not used to sleeping with someone,” oh, shit! “the whole night, okay? I mean, you’re throwing enough body heat to melt the ice shelves in the Arctic.” I get up to a sitting position. After all this talk, it finally hits me what I did last night, or what should be nagging me this morning. Too many unanswered questions between us, and whatever we have, frail and weak trying to keep it all at bay.
I don’t like it, but what am I going to do? Strap him to a chair, pour artificial light in his face and do torture Ace Ventura style with a fork, a knife, and a plate? I shudder, just thinking about that sound.
My back is to him. I don’t usually care what I look like in the morning. I usually get pillow battle scars on my face from pressing into it too hard during the night, and my hair does whatever the hell it wants. Hunter’s shirt is twisted around my torso, showing Hunter a strip of my lower back. Shit. My sweats are tangled along my legs, one up to the knee, the other twisted around completely.
All in all, I make a striking attractive figure, and I really don’t know how Tom Hiddleston hasn’t found me and married me yet. Right.