Page 61 of Shifting Sands

Like the air has changed, warmed by his presence.

Then his touch.

A hand brushes my hair back. Slow. Gentle. Familiar in a way that seems crazy because it’s happened so fast.

I don’t move. Not right away. I want to stay in this moment, caught in that tranquil space between dreaming and waking, where everything feels a little softer. Safer.

“Hey,” Brew murmurs, voice low, husky with exhaustion and affection.

His fingers skim along the side of my face, tucking a curl behind my ear. I finally crack my eyes open.

He’s crouched beside the couch, still wearing that dark T-shirt, his flannel overshirt loose and sleeves pulled up to his elbows. His eyes meet mine, and they’re darker than usual in the low light, but full of heat. Heat I’m starting to crave.

“You left the door unlocked,” he says, not scolding. Just noting.

I smile, sleepy and slow. “I was waiting for you.”

He brushes his thumb along my cheek. “I know.”

I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “What time is it?”

“Late,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

“You just got here.”

“I don’t want to wake you up.”

“Too late for that,” I whisper.

He leans in, presses his forehead on mine. I breathe him in—cologne and sweat and the faint scent of beer and whiskey. God, he smells like comfort and danger, all at once.

I let my eyes flutter closed again.

“You should’ve gone to bed,” he says softly.

“I didn’t want to miss you.”

His hand slides down, over my collarbone, across my shoulder, slipping under the comforter. The pad of his thumb grazes my breast, and my breath hitches.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he says reverently.

“Like what?”

He smiles. “Soft. Sleepy. Wrapped up in a blanket, waiting for me like I’m something worth waiting for.”

I tug on his hand until he lets me pull him onto the couch. He stretches out behind me, curling his body around mine, pressing his chest against my back, arm sliding around my waist.

“I missed you,” I admit, feeling his lips press to the back of my neck.

“I’m here now.”

I turn in his arms, facing him. His fingers trail along my thigh, tracing lazy circles, slipping under the hem of my sleep shirt, slow and careful, like I’m made of fragile glass.

My pulse kicks up. My body is wide awake now, and it’s not just because of his hands. It’s because of him. The way he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Brew …”

“Yeah?”

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