Page 53 of Bottles & Blades

Like I’d been.

Until I woke up with him holding me.

Yup.

Holdingme.

His muscular arm is wrapped around my waist and even though he slept on top of the covers with me below them—his only requirement before agreeing to stay the night before—I can feel his hand burning into my flesh through the material.

It’s like he’s touching my naked skin.

Except, of course, he’s not.

I exhale quietly, sitting in the feel of him—his strong chest against my back, the heavy weight of his arm around my middle, his slow, even breathing in my ear, that spicy scent of him in my nose.

The only downside?

I’m the aforementioned scorching hot.

I don’t want to wake him, so I carefully pull back the edge of the blankets, allowing some of the cool air in.

That’s lovely.

That’s amazing.

I inch a little closer to the edge of the mattress and that blessed chill hits my legs.

The sweat cools on my skin, so even though my back is still an inferno, my front is cold. The mix is pleasant, and I breathe a little easier, comfortable with Jean-Michel behind me, drifting again, not tired but content to just lie here and not think about anything, not worry about anything, not have to be anywhere or do anything or?—

The hand around my middle tightens.

I go stiff.

Because Jean-Michel draws me even closer against him before his hand flattens on my stomach, coaxing me to roll, to face him.

And staring into his bright blue eyes, I suddenly feel shy.

Twice now I’ve fallen asleep plastered against this man.

But waking up next to him like this somehow feels even more vulnerable.

I open my mouth to say something—though I’m not sure what—when he lowers his head and suddenly, his lips are on mine.

He’s kissed me hot.

He’s kissed me gently.

He’s kissed me with a greedy tongue and firm lips.

But he hasn’t kissed me like this—as though the temptation of my mouth is something worth savoring so he’s basking in every second of the contact. The whisper of his lips against mine, the soft glances of his tongue, the bristles of his beard on my skin, the gentle vibration of his groan floating through my chest.

Need blooms in my belly, moisture between my legs, but just as I lift my hand, diving it into the strands of hair on his nape, he breaks his mouth away from mine, his eyes blazing hot as he murmurs, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I say softly, still feeling shy even though I haven’t removed my hand from his hair, the strands like silk over my fingertips. “Did you sleep okay?” I ask. “I know my mattress isn’t the best?—”

“It was the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had, buttercup.”

My inhale is sharp. “Really?”

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