Page 48 of Love to Hate You

“Well, the floor looks nice.”

“Scooch.” He shoved her by the shoulders and she rolled over. He took the now-empty space and sprawled back out. “Be sure to keep your hands to yourself.”

“It won’t be a problem. Trust me.”

“You do realize you’re on the inside, which makes you the small spoon.”

“I don’t spoon.”

“But do you fork?”

Summer woke up all tingly. From her fingertips to her toes and everywhere in between. It didn’t take long to figure out why. She was wrapped around a hard, delicious, jerk of a man. He was fast asleep on his back and she had one thigh thrown over his, and her right hand was a scant inch from what appeared to be a massive top-of-the-morning-to-you.

His breathing was deep and steady, the breath of a sleeping man—thank god! If he saw the way she was full ongropinghim, he’d never let her live it down. It would erase any advantage she had in this bookstore war of theirs.

Remember, he’s going to put you out of business.

But he is so freaking hot!

Hot-headed is more like it.

And entitled.

And prideful.

And sweet when he’s vulnerable.

Irritating when he was breathing in your space.

But right now, they were sharing the same breath of space and she wasn’t irritated. She was—ohmygod! She was turned on. Like tingles and flutters and little vibrations in her southern region. It felt exactly how she imagined one of the heroines in a romance book feeling.

She chanced a quick glance that turned into a string of inappropriate sneak peeks. Who could blame her? Even through his T-shirt she could see the ropes of sinew and muscle. His long lashes fell on his cheek and his lips were full and kissable. And the stubble that defined his already defined jawline made her fingers itch to run their way through it.

Then there was the way he smelled. Spicy and adventurous, like buttery leather and theKama Sutra. Without moving much, Summer nuzzled her nose against his chest and sniffed him. And those flutters flitted awfully close to foreplay. Just one more sniff, then she’d sneak out of bed and take a cold shower. Or maybe a hot one, and think about him while she found some much-needed release.

First, she had to find a way to detangle herself, then crawl over him, and slip out of bed without waking him. She took in one last sniff and closed her eyes, because he also smelled like every woman’s walking sex fantasy.

She removed her leg first and he didn’t budge. His breathing was still so rhythmic and reliable she nearly jumped out of her skin when he said, “Did you just smell me?”

“No!”

“Then what were you doing?”

“Welcoming the morning with a yawn. You just happened to be there.”

He chuckled in a raspy, sleep-rough voice that made her panties wet. “And your hand? Is that headed to my kind of good morning? I mean, another inch and you’re at the promised land.”

“It’s not my fault you pulled me on top of you in the middle of the night.”

“Love, your hands are cupping me like you own me and mine are tucked respectfully behind my head.”

How horrifying. He was right! In fact, he wasn’t touching her at all. She was the one instigating the cuddle. She jerked her hands back and sat up so fast she banged her head against the underside of the top bunk.

“Ow.” She cradled her head.

Eyes closed, chin to her chest, she held her injured head in her palms.

“You okay?”—his tone one of genuine concern. “That sounded bad.”

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