Page 16 of Boulder's Weight

I wake up before dawn, body alert even though I barely got any sleep.

Something feels different—there’s warmth pressed against my side.

For a split second, I think I'm dreaming.

Kelsey's still here.

In my fucking bed.

Her light brown hair is splayed across my pillow, her breathing soft and steady, one of her legs tangled with mine and an arm draped over my chest.

She's completely naked, the sheet barely covering her lower half, and I have a perfect view of her bare back, the subtle curve of her spine.

What in the actual fuck?

I never let women stay the night.

That's rule number one in the Boulder playbook—fuck 'em and get 'em out.

No overnight guests, no breakfast, no fucking cuddling.

It keeps things simple.

Keeps expectations clear.

Prevents anyone from getting ideas about where this is going.

Yet I didn't kick her out.

I actually fell asleep with her in my arms, and now it's morning, and I still haven't made any move to wake her up and send her on her way.

Something's wrong with me.

Has to be.

I study her in the dim light filtering through the blinds.

Her face looks different while she sleeps—younger, more peaceful.

The constant wariness I've seen in her eyes is gone, replaced by the kind of vulnerability that makes my chest tighten in a way I'm not comfortable with.

There's a small scar near her hairline that I didn't notice before, a tiny imperfection on otherwise flawless skin.

She's beautiful.

Not in the obvious, in-your-face way that usually catches my attention in bars, but in a quieter, more dangerous way.

I run my fingers lightly over the curve of her shoulder, across the smoothness of her back.

Her skin is warm beneath my touch, soft in a way that makes me want to feel more of it.

I can see the faint marks my mouth left on her neck last night, and something primal stirs in me at the sight.

My marks.

On her body.

The possessive thought catches me off guard.

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