My wife and I.
I gape at him, too stunned to pull my hand away as he drags me back toward the suite.
The second the door shuts behind us, I yank free. “Are you insane?”
He shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Does this mean you’re taking the couch?”
Jonathan sighs. “Emma, we’re both exhausted. Can we not do this tonight? My head is killing me, and I can’t bear the sound of your voice right now.”
I gasp. “Oh? Is my voice that unbearable? Does it make your ears bleed? Should I talk more just to increase your suffering?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he groans. “Actually…” He exhales. “I like your voice. I probably like it too much. Sometimes, I even make you mad on purpose just to hear you ramble.”
I freeze.
What?
Jonathan blinks.
We both realize what he just admitted.
And then he starts taking his shirt off.
I screech. “Whyare you stripping in front of me?”
He looks genuinely confused. “I can’t sleep with a shirt on.”
I slap my hands over my face.
Jonathan laughs.
“And if I said the same? What if I wanted to sleep bare-chested?” I huff. “If you get to be naked, so do I.”
Silence.
Then…
“I don’t mind,” he says, amused. “Go ahead.”
My face ignites. He didnotjust say that.
“You said…y-you…I…” I sputter, mortified.
Jonathan chuckles. “Open your eyes, Emma. There’s nothing to see here.”
I crack one eye open.
He lied.
There’s plenty to see.
His body is lean, toned, annoyingly perfect. For a split second—just one—I wonder what it would feel like to rest against him, to trace those muscles—
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Shut it down, Emma. Immediately.