Page 27 of Lucky Laces
I nod, carefully lie back down.
Sweating from sitting up six whole inches.
There’s a joke there—if only I didn’t feel like puking.
“Breathe,” she says softly, but I do the opposite when she runs her fingers through my hair, my eyes flying open, my lungs freezing.“Huddy.”Her fingers still.“Breathe.”
I do, and I do it in a rush.
“Good,” she whispers.“That’s good.Now again.”
I inhale.Exhale.Repeat.
“That’s it.”Her fingers start up again and fuck, but this might be the best shit of my life—lying next to her, Diana touching me, looking at me, seeingme.
But if she keeps this up, I’m going to do something supremely stupid.
“Dee,” I rasp.
Her throat works and she leans in, mouth dangerously close.
The scent of her in my nose, the gold flecks amongst the green of her eyes, the lush pillow of her almost naked breasts on my arm.
Christ, I want her.
And fuck, if that yearning doesn’t show on my face given how quickly she pulls her hand back.
Like she’s been burned.
“Diana—”
She looks away.“We should get some rest,” she whispers.“It might take a while to get a signal out.”
I want to reach for her.
But her hands are clenched into fists and there are goose bumps on her skin.
She’s cold.
So, I do the only thing I can.
I wrestle my shirt off before she can protest.
“Hudson!”
“You’re cold.”
Her eyes fly to mine, and what I see there doesn’t make this shit any easier.
Because it’s appreciation for my body.
Even though I can do fuck all about it.
“Put it on,” I order.
“You’re hurt?—”
“And you’re a buck twenty with goose bumps all over and your shirt serving as a bandage.Put on the shirt, Coach.”
