Page 9 of Stuffing My Obsession
Paris blinks at me. “What? No way. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” she shoots back, planting her hands on her hips. “You’re already helping me enough. I’m not going to hog the only decent bed while you curl up on that…that sad excuse for furniture.”
I arch my brow, a smile tugging at my lips. She’s tiny, soft, all flushed cheeks and nervous energy, and yet she digs her heels in like she’s ready to fight me on this one.
Stubborn.I didn’t expect that from her.
I want to laugh. I also want to throw her on that bed and show her exactly what happens when she challenges me.
“The bed’s yours,” I mutter instead.
She narrows her eyes, unconvinced. “We’ll figure it out.”
I don’t argue further, because if I do, I might give in to the thought clawing through my head—the thought of sharing that bed with her, her body pressed against me, her warm breathon my chest. My blood heats at the image, my control already fraying.
Paris breaks the moment, brushing past me. “I need a shower.”
The words hit me like a punch. My jaw locks, because all I can see now is water streaming down her skin, sliding over her naked body, dripping from her hair. I force my hands into fists at my sides, shifting to hide the sudden hardness pressing against my jeans.
When I glance up, she’s watching me. Eyes wide, curious. And for the briefest second, there’s a flicker—heat, interest, something raw. Then she looks away, pretending like she didn’t just catch me imagining her naked.
Dangerous.
If I stay in here, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
“I’ll grab us something to eat,” I grunt, heading for the door before I lose what’s left of my control.
By the time I get back, she’s sitting by the window, damp hair spilling around her shoulders. She’s changed into a baggy T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, but it doesn’t hide much. Her legs are bare, smooth and pale in the lamplight, and my eyes catch on the curve of her thighs. My throat tightens when I notice the way the thin fabric clings to her chest, her nipples pressing faintly against the cotton.
Innocent. Completely unaware. And it kills me.
I hold up the bag. “Kitchen downstairs is closed. I had to drive out, but the only thing open was a gas station down the road. They don’t have much. Sandwiches. Bottled water.”
She turns, smiling like I just came back with a five-course meal. “Perfect.”
When I set it down, she immediately starts dividing it. “We’ll share.”
“No.”
Her brows lift. “Why not?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s not true. You’ve been driving for hours. Eat.”
There it is again—that endearing little stubborn streak.
I lean closer, meeting her gaze until her cheeks flush. “You, eat.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue again, but she gives in to my command with a quiet “fine.” She unwraps the sandwich, takes a small bite, and for some damn reason I can’t stop watching her mouth.
She eats neat, careful, licking a crumb from the corner of her lips. Cute. Too cute. My chest aches with something I don’t even want to name.
She catches me staring, color rushing to her cheeks. “What?”
“Nothing.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
