Page 36 of Townshipped
“If you don’t want a woman checking you out, you ought to put a shirt on,” I tease him.
My words were meant to diffuse the heat between us, but they only serve to stoke the warmth spreading across my belly and tingling into my hands.
The beep of my tea gives me an excuse to turn and open the microwave, willing myself to look away from Aiden in all his middle-of-the-night glory.
“What are you doing up?” he asks in a gravelly voice that should be recorded and used in fertility clinics. Women would ovulate to the point of bearing triplets if they could hear him right now.
“I couldn’t sleep. I remembered a big chunk of something.”
I dunk the tea bag into my cup, focusing on the rhythmic movement of my hand instead of looking up to see Aiden staring at me. I can feel his gaze as if he were actually touching me.
“You remembered something else?” His voice is still sleep-saturated—a sultry grittiness mixed with the smoothness of maple syrup that makes me want to crawl into his lap and finally kiss him.
It’s obviously not the first thought I’ve had of kissing him. I fight the inclination daily, reminding myself he’s the hero in this story of mine. Naturally, I’m going to be drawn to him.
Besides, he’s one of the nicest guys in the history of mankind and I don’t need my memory to know that. And he’s not a softy. Some men who are nice are just too nice. They lack backbone or a distinctive personality. Don’t ask me how I know that.
Aiden has a self-assured commanding presence about him that takes charge and makes me feel like I can fully relax and release my need to control. It’s sexy and alluring and I’m in hotter water than my tea bag over here.
Dunk. Dunk. Dunk.
Tea making is serious business tonight.
Aiden prowls toward me in his bare feet. Yes. He prowls. It’s not a walk or a stroll. He’s dangerous, and I’m not so sure I want to be saved from the peril of being near him right now.
I watch his feet as he draws near. How are feet sexy? I’m a mess. My defenses are down. I’d probably find his wrist sexy. Yep. There’s the wrist, reaching past me as he grabs down a mug of his own. He’s leaning toward the cabinet—all bare-chested and bed-headed—and my eyes take a little trip up from the sexy wrist to the forearm, dotted with just the right sprinkling of hair. Manly, but not overdone like an orangutan or some other primate. Thankfully. All that excess arm hair would be a definite turnoff. Primate man. Carpet man. Chewbacca.
All thoughts of undesirable hairiness fade as I peruse the man standing in front of me. The ridged definition on Aiden’s forearms flex just the slightest. All that farmery work has paid off.
I trace a path with my eyes toward Aiden’s shoulder. It’s a remarkable shoulder, with strong lines between his arm muscles and the rounding toward his clavicle. I’m a student of anatomy right now. And I’m close enough I could reach out and map his chest with my palm.
I take a sip of tea. Hot!
I sputter a bit and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand.
“Like what you see?” Aiden asks from his spot less than a foot away from me. His cup rests empty in his hand and his eyes search mine for permission.
I nod. He brushes a piece of hair away from my face. It’s an innocent gesture. Who am I kidding? Nothing about this moment is innocent. Aiden’s hand rests on my face, cupping my cheek. We stare through the semi-darkness at one another. No one else is here. This is our world, this place we’ve ended up in together. And we both comprehend our situation.
Without a word, I give him all the consent he needs, and he bends toward me, placing his lips on mine. I curl my hand around my mug, needing something to ground me as Aiden moves his mouth over mine with a gentleness that quickly turns to hunger.
We’ve both held back, danced around one another, and now, in this unexpected midnight rendezvous we’re conceding to the desire that’s been building like a looming storm between us.
Aiden doesn’t move his lips from mine as he deftly takes the mug and places it on the counter with the hand that isn’t cupping my face. If I were an Olympic judge in charge of ranking the kiss competition, I’d give that maneuver a solid ten.
But I don’t have any time to think of the Olympics. Aiden’s hands move—one capturing the back of my head, fingers twining through my hair, and the other palming my lower back where he tugs me so I move toward him. Nothing separates us but my pajamas and his plaid pj bottoms. I kiss him with everything I am, not knowing if I’ll ever kiss him again.
He's like home to me.
I don’t know where home was, but I know where it is.
We kiss long enough for my tea to become lukewarm. When Aiden pulls away, he smooths my hair, looking into my eyes with a tenderness that threatens to break me and remake me on the spot. Then he runs a hand through his own hair, shaking his head as if to dislodge a thought.
“Don’t,” I tell him. “I wanted that. It’s okay.”
“You sure?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest in a move I’m sure he has no idea makes him look like he’s posing for a photo shoot. Women would give up chocolate to get a glimpse of what I’m looking at right now. And it’s mine. Maybe not forever. But right now, Aiden MacIntyre is mine.
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “No matter what.”
