I can’t kick the covers off properly because there’s a heavy weight over my legs—and over my waist, too, now that I think about it. I try to lean up onto my elbow, but when I move, the weight around my waist squeezes so tight that I’m abruptly awake. Very awake. And there’s a bare chest inches away from my nose.
“Stop moving,” a deep voice growls above my head.
I do stop. I stop so fast that my sore muscles spasm momentarily when I freeze up.
Torres. In my bed.
“And she freaks out in three . . . two . . .”
I push the arm off my waist and sit up straight. That’s about the time I process my nakedness, when I feel the cool air of the bedroom fan over my sweaty skin. It feels good, but I’m more concerned with just how very bright the morning light has made my room. Scrambling, I pluck at the sheet and pull it up to cover my breasts.
Torres groans behind me. (Torres? Mateo? God, why are names so stupid?)
I feel the barest touch low on my spine, just above the curve of my bottom that I know is entirely visible to him. He begins dragging his fingernail up the length of my spine, and I straighten, resisting the urge to squirm under that small exploration. But I can’t control the goose bumps that pebble over my skin or the breath that catches in my throat when the bed shifts and I feel his mouth begin the same trek up my back.
I clutch at the covers, needing something to ground me, and instead I end up gripping his calf. He chuckles, and the puff of his breath in the middle of my back tickles, and I break my resolve to stay still.
“Did you know you squirm when you’re about to come?”
I don’t know how to answer that. My brain is still too foggy from sleep. Do I stay silent? Tell him that yes, I noticed it last night, or no, I’ve never done “that” before him, so I don’t know if it counts? Or do I just tell him to shut up because he’s embarrassing me?
I don’t like being embarrassed.
I tell myself I shouldn’t be. What we did last night, it was . . . brilliant. Better than I ever could have imagined. And he’s made no move to rush out of my bed, so that has to be a good sign. But I can’t get over the fact that I’m sticky in places I shouldn’t be sticky, and the sheets against my skin are damp with sweat, and dear God, was that his tongue on my back? Doesn’t he know I’m sweaty and gross?
Just when I’m about to bolt for the bathroom, his mouth reaches the nape of my neck, and I feel his tongue and then teeth graze the side of my neck.
“Should I assume your silence is a yes? That you know your arms and legs flail when you’re right on the edge, as if you’re about to fall over an actual cliff?”
I shrug. That’s what I’m reduced to. Master of intellect right here.
His mouth trails along my shoulder, and then I feel the graze of his stubble as he lays his cheek against my back.
“Come on, girl genius. Answer me. It’s important.”
Then, finally, I find my voice. Scoffing, I say, “How could that possibly be important?”
“Because I want to fuck you in the shower, but I’m worried you won’t be able to stay standing when you come.”
I make a noise that not even I can identify, and drop my head into my hands. I hear him chuckle behind me as he flops back on the bed.
“You are such an ass,” I say into my hands.
Then, before I know what’s happening, I’m being slid and tugged and rolled, and my naked body is draped on top of his. My legs fall to each side of his hips, and large hands squeeze my backside. “What did you say about your ass?”
Annoyance is finally beginning to dilute my embarrassment, and I try to push up from him. His arms won’t budge. Instead I end up with my forearms pressed against his pectoral muscles, and his face just below mine. “I said you’re an ass.”
“Hmm . . . no. I like the way I heard it better.”
I squirm, trying to slide off him, and instead he rolls, trapping me beneath him, and insinuating his hips more firmly between my thighs.
“This is . . . a lot for me,” I say. “I would appreciate it if you could put the joking on pause for a little bit.”
His eyes are dark as his gaze glides over my face. There’s the barest shadow of stubble along his jaw and neck that I’m not used to seeing, and just the sight of it makes something flutter in my belly. One corner of his mouth tips up, and I know he felt the subtle shift in my hips as I reacted to the sight of him hovering over me. He leans in close, brushing his lips back and forth over mine in a not quite kiss.
“I don’t know why you think I’m joking, sweetheart. I love your ass. Have ever since you wore that short little schoolgirl skirt and nearly gave me a heart attack when you walked away from me. And as for fucking you in the shower . . . I was definitely not joking about that.”
A blush blazes over my cheeks, and he smiles. “I get that this is new for you, Nell. I do. But I’m not going to lie or hold back telling you how much I want you. I can’t.”
I swallow. “I’m just not used to talking about this kind of thing.”
“I believe you scientific types would say the only way to really get comfortable with something is through exposure. Practice.” He lowers his body against mine, props himself up on his elbows, and cups my cheeks. “And for the good of mankind and these gorgeous red cheeks, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make you comfortable.”
His gaze is so piercing, so serious. I am constantly amazed and undone by the different facets of his personality. He can flip-flop between joker and romantic so easily. He’s so comfortable as both. Then, as if proving my thoughts, he adds, “And I’m willing to have shower sex as many times as it takes until you learn to stay standing.”