Page 72 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“They never asked for it back.”
“How do you do that?” I ask. “On the one hand, you kind of scammed your way to a free fridge, but on the other, you did so with a balance of personal integrity and dumb ol’ practicality. That’s hot, Ian. Like everything you do.” I sigh. “It’s so annoying.”
His laugh is a surprised bark. I turn away, under the guise of studying the room. Unfiltered honesty is really working for me. Speak first, worry later. How Dawghouse!
I continue my inventory. Vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, so,somany places to hang plants. A bookshelf with a surprising number of good-sized hardcovers, though I force myself not to scan the titles. Past the kitchen is a living space with a tan leather couch and a flat-screen TV, as well as a coffee table. I wonder if the furniture had been purchased before or after his time with the guys.
I take in the bedroom area, dominated by a king-sized bed replete with a bed frame. The top drawer of his dresser is open, like he said, but otherwise, the space is neat as a pin.
He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, “So?”
I mimic his stance. “So, what?”
He reaches for me, pulling me against him, and I wrap my arms around his neck. “Are you crawling out of your skin?”
“Are you going to show me the bathroom?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then—and be honest—do you keep your toothbrush in the shower?”
He half smiles. “It’sefficient.”
I cringe, fighting a shudder that’s only partially for show. Ian laughs.
“It’s on thesoap dish,” he continues, running his hands up and down my sides. “The toothpaste, too.”
I shake my head, but it’s at myself, not him. A shower toothbrush has never been a deal-breaker, but seeing one puts me on guard. At least it always has before. But not now.
Ian wiggles his brows, delighting in my torment.
This man.
I sigh. “Youreallywant to nap?”
In answer, he grins, and tumbles back onto the bed, bringing me down with him.
I guess so.
I wake up swaddled in Man Mountain. He is a living weighted blanket, his heavy arm over me, forearm wedged between my boobs, his hand tucked beneath my cheek. I make an exploratory attempt to roll away, and his hold tightens, the flex of his arm securing me to him again. He grunts and nuzzles into my neck.
It’s decided. I’ll stay here forever.
As my body settles into its new residence, my mind reels with the impossibility of my morning. The dizzy spell. Ian’s one-on-one lifting lesson. Our literal one-on-one. The fact that at this exact moment, I am on his bed, draped in his exceptional form, which was, not long ago, expressing base intentions toward my very receptive self.
He shifts, and the hand at my cheek drifts down my sternum, halting when he gets to my left breast. I stop breathing. Another grunt. This one…curious. A gentle squeeze, and my body reacts, arching against hand and hips encouragingly. His hips pressagainst me in response, and there’s no missing the rigid heat making contact with my rear. Oh,my.
Behind me, Ian’s breathing maintains the steady rhythm of sleep. His hand continues to knead, and heat gathers low in my belly. His thumb brushes my nipple, and the intimate contact has me gasping. GoodLordI’m starved for this. Semiconscious groping through a sports bra and tank has me writhing like a cat in heat.
A mechanical vibration picks up on the bed, and I freeze. Ian’s arm shifts below the pillow we share, and I watch him thumb the screen of his phone to silence the alarm. He lets out a snuffling sound, resuming his massage of my breast—
His hand stops mid-squeeze.
I laugh. “How’s that boob treating you?”
“Oh, my God,” he breathes. He releases my breast slowly, giving it an apologetic double pat. “I’m so sorry.”
“You sure?” I shift my backside against the absolutely raging erection nestled against me. “This doesn’t feel likesorry.”
