Page 62 of Trusting Blake
Blake nods and slides his hands underneath my back, releasing the clasp of my bra, and as he slides it away from my body, I fumble with the button of his shorts rather uselessly. He grabs my hand and moves it above my head, locking our fingers together. With a soft peck against my lips, he gets off the couch and undoes his zipper and steps out of his shorts, kicking off his sneakers. It’s an image I think will be ingrained in my mind forever: Blake Avery in his fitted white boxers, his tan skin, and that damn sexy silver chain necklace. He finds his way back to me, resuming our position on the couch, our bodies entwined. My heart is thundering and the sweat beading across Blake’s smooth skin feels like the most irresistible sensation in the world. I have never felt more wanted as his hands follow the curve of my waist up to my chest.
“Mila,” he says breathlessly, his voice seductively husky and extra twangy, “I just want to tell you. . . before we—”
I cup his jaw in my hands. “I know, Blake. I feel the same way.”
And we leave the words unsaid, because we say it in the way our mouths move in sync, in the way we passionately explore each other’s body, in the way we smile every time our gazes lock.
We don’t need to say out loud that we’ve fallen in love with each other.
24
A direct ray of sunshine irritating my eyes forces me awake. That’s the downfall of the cabin – it is lined with windows but no blinds. Luckily, there’s AC installed and it’s been running all night, so at least I don’t wake up in sweltering heat. I yawn and try to roll over on the couch, but I can’t move far because of Blake.
He’s tucked next to me, his arm resting over me, and he’s only wearing boxers. I shyly bite my lip and glance down at myself. I’m wearing his T-shirt and I take a quick whiff of it, inhaling the scent of his cologne.
There’s a scuffle of noise across the cabin, and I bolt upright and peer over the back of the couch. Bailey stretches out his legs, shakes out his fur, then pads over to his water bowl. My sudden movement has jerked Blake awake too, and he groans, still half in a slumber.
“Oh my God,” I say, horrified. “I totally forgot Bailey was in here.”
“Yeah,” Blake says in that morning voice I remember so well from Memphis. “He was here the whole night. We should have probably put him in the house.” He stretches out his chest and sits up, hands in his messy hair, which I may or may not have played a role in creating.
Our eyes meet and we both instantly look away, blushing.
“How about – uh – some breakfast?” Blake offers. “I can make a mean stack of pancakes.”
“Perfect,” I say, and I quit trying to suppress my grin and decide to own it instead. I’m beyond the point of being shy around Blake by now, and I really am happy this morning. Waking up next to Blake. . . wearing his T-shirt. . . fresh pancakes. . .
Can life get any better than this?
Answer: yes, yes it can, because Blake kisses me.
He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, then we dash across the lawn toward the French doors with Bailey nipping at our heels, thinking we’re playing chase. We head inside the grand kitchen, as spotless as ever and as though no one actually lives here. How the hell LeAnne runs a cityandher home at the same time is beyond me. Maybe they have a maid.
We pass the dining room where I joined Blake and his mom for that awkward lunch one Sunday, and then we head deeper into the house. It’s the furthest inside I’ve been, and I examine the elegant art on the walls and inhale the scent of fresh linen as I follow Blake upstairs to his room, which is surprisingly tidy for a teenage guy. The walls are plain white, his navy bedsheets are neat and crease-free, and there’s not a single out-of-place object. I wonder if he even spends time in here, or if he just prefers the more relaxed solitude of the cabin.
“Here,” he says, pulling open a drawer and tossing me a pair of gym shorts. He grabs some sweatpants for himself and slides them on. As he passes me on his way out of the room, he catches me in his arms and passionately kisses me, his hands pressing against me. “Now, pancakes. Extra fluffy just for you.”
Back in the kitchen, I play tug-of-war on the floor with Bailey over a stuffed rabbit while admiring the dips in Blake’s spine as he works shirtless at the stove. I’m wearing the gym shorts he passed me, along with his T-shirt I slept in, and my hair is gathered into a messy bun on the crown of my head, but I wouldn’t change this morning for anything. Blake turns to me, a cocky smirk on his face as he confidently flicks a pancake into the air and smoothly catches it again in the pan.
“Okay, I get it, Blake,” I say, lifting my hands in a gesture of defeat, “you can sing, you can play guitar,andyou can perfectly flip a pancake. Whatcan’tyou do?”
He sets the pan back down on the stove and winks at me over his shoulder. “I can’t help falling for you.”
Fireworks rip through me, exploding in my chest, brightening my world with color. His words fill me with so much joy that I give up my fight with Bailey and let him bolt off with his toy in victory. Hoisting myself up from the kitchen floor, I sneak up behind Blake, wrap my arms around him, and press my head against the warm skin of his back.
My heart clutches tight when I remember these are our last few days together. Just two more days of flirtatious smirks with Blake. . .Two.And I still haven’t told him yet. I just can’t bear to ruin these perfect moments, and I fear that if Blake knows we are on a very, very short timer, things will be different.
“Can you grab some plates? Top cupboard over there,” says Blake.
I nod against his shoulder blade and unwrap myself from him. While he cooks the pancakes, I get plates and silverware, and then dice up some strawberries. I do have to admit, his pancake-making skills are extraordinary – he makes a stack on each plate, sprinkles strawberries over them, then smothers the pancakes in maple syrup.
“This is way better than the cereal breakfasts I’ve been having at the ranch,” I tell him as I sit at the dining table, and he sets the pancakes down in front of me. I’m practically drooling.
“Bon appétit!” he says with a dramatic chef’s-kiss gesture.
He collapses into the seat next to me, and together we dig into our romantic breakfast. This is all new to me and I wasn’t sure what to expect this morning, whether or not it would be awkward, but I only feel closer to Blake than I did before. I trust him, I feel safe with him. We keep glancing at each other as we eat, unable to break out of our permanent smiles. I almost want to cry at the injustice of it, I want to wake up in his arms every day.
“By the way,” I say, engaging in conversation before I end up hurling myself across the table at him, the urge to touch him almost too strong to resist, “did your mom tell you about the run-in she had withmymom on Wednesday? In the Walmart parking lot.”
