Page 164 of Ruin Me Gently

He held my gaze for a moment longer before he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Do you want to finish eating?” he murmured. “Or do you want to get comfortable? If you do, just say the word and I can leave you for the night.”

“What?”

“Figured you might want the space.”

Space? What did he mean by that? Why on earth would I want space? I wanted him right next to me, his heat pressed against me, enveloping me in a little safety net of muscles and tattoos andhim.

“Absolutely not. This is your bed Silas, and I want you to sleep next to me.”

His throat bobbed. “Are you sure?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Of course I’m sure.”

For a second, he just stared down at me, like he was waiting for me to change my mind. Then, slowly, he let out a soft breath. “Okay.”

I had precisely two functioning brain cells at this hour, and both of them were busy trying to process why I felt like I was being used as a human blanket.

Something was tracing slow, lazy shapes against my shoulder. Something broad, firm, and warm was pressed against my back. And my cheek rested against something solid.

The two brain cells tried to catch up, sluggish with sleep, dragging themselves toward awareness like a dial-up internet connection.

Coffee. Ink. That stupid, delicious sage and sea salt scent of him.

Oh.

My lashes fluttered open. Soft morning light filtered through the curtains, stretching over the stacked spines across the bookshelves, softening the plants into lighter shades of green.

I exhaled slowly, shifting myself, and immediately froze.

I wasn’t justnearSilas. No. I was fully sprawled out across his lap, my head resting on his thigh, his arm draped across my back.

My stomach tightened.

There was the rustle of paper. The quiet turn of a page.

I turned my head, cheek dragging over the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and let my gaze trail up.

The muscles, the olive skin, the tattoos…

The feathers that curved over his ribs, the dagger down his sternum, that dark, detailed, gorgeous moth stretching shoulder to shoulder.

I could see it all.

Not just in pictures.

But close up.

Shit.

My eyes wandered higher.

The stubble. The dark, unruly curls still messy from sleep. The slight furrow of his brows, deep in whatever he was reading.

Wait. Glasses?

Oh my God.

Not just glasses. The kind of glasses that made my brain short-circuit and my ovaries file for bankruptcy. Thin black frames, sharp against the strong cut of his face, resting low enough on his nose that I could still see the deep brown of his eyes as they flicked across the pages.

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