Page 71 of Bleacher Report
More pressingly, where are my clothes?
The comforter is cool against my bare skin. The towel... Oh no. I went to bed wrapped in it after a hot bath. I must have lost it during the night.
I blink slowly, my gaze traveling upward, pausing at the sight of a smooth, bare chest. Golden skin marked with a familiar tattoo—a memory from a photo he sent last week.
Hunter.
Oh God.
I’m on top of him. Not beside him. Not curled up on the edge of my own mattress like a civilized human. I'm straddling him.
One thigh slung over his. My body pressed half on top of him at his side. My breasts smashed against his rib cage. My hand spread across his tattooed pectoral like I’m staking some kind of claim.
The pillow wall is a managed mess. No longer straight and sturdy how I constructed it before I fell asleep.
And I’m naked. Every inch of me.
What the actual hell?
My brain spins. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is climbing into bed wrapped in my towel after a hot bath and too many late-night thoughts about a certain hockey player’s abs and him naked in the Hawkeyes’ locker room.
Did I move in my sleep? Did I crawl over the wall and drape myself over him like a human weighted blanket?
I steal a glance down.
He's still in his boxer briefs. His body is loose and warm beneath mine, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. One arm is tucked behind his head, the other draped at his side, nowhere near touching me. He didn't pull me over here. He didn't initiate any of this.
I did.
Mortification washes over me.
Worse—my thighs tighten at the memory of the dream I was having. The one where I was backed up against a locker room wall, no clothes between us, his mouth trailing down my body, his hands pinning mine high above my head.
And now... Now I'm pressed against his thigh. My core is still humming from the ghost of that dream.
Jesus. Did I...grind on him in my sleep?
Did he wake up at any point and feel me? Hear me?
My heart pounds harder. I'm going to die. That's it. Actual death by embarrassment. There will be no funeral. Just a closed casket and hushed whispers, like:She rode him unconscious and never recovered.
I try to shift off of him, slowly, carefully. But the second I move, he stirs beneath me, his muscles tightening. His breath catches.
And that's when I realize—I'm not the only one affected.
I freeze.
His chest shifts under mine. A low groan escapes him, like he's been yanked out of the best dream of his life—or, more likely, jolted into the worst reality.
I lift my head just enough to meet his bleary gaze.
He looks at me and grins.
"Good morning," he says, voice gravel-thick and teasing. "You’re on top of me. Did you miss me?"
Oh God.
"Um...good morning," I mumble, my voice raspy, my body still firmly pressed to his. If I push away right now, he'll see everything. "Did I..."
