Page 32 of Everywhere You Look

“It feels unfair that you’re always the one being strong for me. After my injury and now all of this? What if you end up resenting me?”

Luke’s questions break through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts, and it feels like a good time to take my hands off of him. Releasing his thighs, I sit back on my feet, but not before reaching up to ruffle the messy pop of dark brown hair on top of his head.It’s so soft and silky, such a stark contrast to the scratchy feel of his beard against my lips this morning and yet somehow just as delicious and intoxicating.

Fuck.I think to myself as I pull away.I need to keep my hands to myself.

Easier said than done.

Man, life was so simple back when Luke was just my hot friend. Now that he’s my hot husband, I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop myself from wanting him.

I don’t know that I really want to try that hard.

“I could never resent you, Luke. You’re my best friend, remember? And now that we’re married, we’re partners in life. I’ll always be here to hold you up when you can’t do it yourself, and when I need support, I know you’ll be there for me, too. Now,” I clear my throat as I push myself up to my feet. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to a few hours of shut-eye before Ollie wakes up demanding a diaper change and a cuddle.”

“Mmm, yes. Sleep. Sleep sounds so—what are you doing?!” Luke asks, his eyes going wide when they land on me. I’ve pulled my t-shirt over my head and am halfway through pushing my joggers down my legs when I stop to quirk an eyebrow at him.

“I’m getting ready for bed…what are you doing?”

“Dean, you’re in my room. You’re getting naked in my room.”

“I’m not getting naked. I’m gettingalmostnaked. I’d prefer to sleep naked but I’ve gotten used to sleeping in my boxer briefs since moving in. You never know when Lemmie or Mellie is going to hop into your bed in the middle of the night.”

“Okay but why are you getting almost naked in my room? Go to bed, man.”

“I am going to bed. My husband,” I point to Luke, taking a second to let my gaze drift over his body while I push my joggers all the way down and step out of them. “My bed.”

“I don’t…I…uhm…” Luke stammers, and I might think I was making him uncomfortable if it weren’t for the way his eyes are flicking between my bare chest and my tight, black boxer briefs. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress a smile while I preen a bit. I might not be hard, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a nice bulge going on anyway. And by the way Luke’s pupils are blown out, he likes what he sees.

“Luke, I agreed to no dating. I agreed to no intimacy. I agreed to all of my orgasms in the foreseeable future being artisan-crafted, homemade, me and my fist sessions. I’m fine with those things. If you reallywant me to leave, I’ll leave. But we’re married and we’ve got a long stretch of road ahead of us. Personally, I’d very much like to not spend my time sleeping alone. So tell me: do you want me to leave, or do you want to sleep next to your husband?”

I watch as Luke pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying the kissable bit of flesh while he mulls over my request. After a long minute, I’m about ready to hang my head in shame, pull up my sweatpants and sulk away to my own bedroom. But then Luke stands up and pulls his own t-shirt over his head.

“Honestly? I hate sleeping alone,” he says softly, taking my hand in his. “I’d really like you to stay.”

Relief washes over me, and I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. Without thinking, I move in an inch and press my lips to Luke’s forehead.

And I swear to everything holy, I think I hear him sigh.

“Let’s go to bed, corazón.”

“Mmmmphh,”I groan as the harsh glow of the morning sun beams me directly in the eyelid, somehow managing to burn my damn retina even though I’m pretty sure my eyes are still closed and that should be physically impossible. But what the hell do I know?

Since I moved into the Cannon house, I’ve outgrown the need for an alarm clock. Turns out, an almost one-year-old baby is better at shrieking a person out of sleep mode than any phone alarm. But I’m not used to the sun being the thing to drag me from dreamland. I must have forgotten to pull my blackout curtains all the way closed before I dozed off last night.

I shift, ready to make my way downstairs with one singular focus—coffee.

Or, I try to shift. I can’t seem to move.

Holy shit. I’m laying here on my back, and I can’t move. Oh my god. Am I having a stroke? Does a stroke make you unable to move to wiggle your ass out of bed? What are the signs of a stroke? Something about toast, right? If I were having a stroke, would I even be able to remember what the hell toast had to do with strokes?

A soft sigh breaks through my mental breakdown, and I blink my eyes open. At first, all I see is the ceiling fan whirring slowly. But when I lookdown, I find a mop of brown hair on my chest, a thick, muscled arm death-gripping my waist, and a leg that doesn’t belong to me draped over my thighs.

The scent of something earthy and evergreen—not toast, thankfully—invades my nostrils as my brain comes back online and I remember where I am. Luke’s room. Luke’s tea tree oil shampoo. Luke’s bed.

Well, I guess last night I sort of insisted that it be our bed.

To be fair, I would have left if he’d asked me to. I might have the pushy McKenna genes, but I know when to leave well enough alone. I gave Luke the opportunity to tell me to go, but he asked me to stay, and I did.

And now I am seemingly trapped underneath the weight of him with no way out.

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