Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fingertips trace lazy circles around my stomach, slowly coaxing me out of my sleep. The solid wall of warmth behind me pulls me right back under.
I need to wake up. I need to leave.
As if reading my mind, and deciding against it, my Bone It buddy pulls me in closer. There’s a soft sigh from behind me, that’s apparently music to my ears, because it lulls me right back to sleep.
I’ll get up soon, I bargain with myself. Ten more minutes.
Newsflash: it was not ten more minutes.
I fling my eyes open, only for my head to start throbbing immediately. It takes me all of a nanosecond to remember I’m at the sleep study clinic. It’s morning. And the messy mop of brown curls that are so close I can feel a few strays on my cheek belong to Xander.
I’m big spooning Xander.
The entire back of his body is making direct contact with my entire front. My arm is also draped over his solid torso, fingers resting on his chest.
I lift my fingers off his chest and freeze so I can assess the situation, all while willing my sensory receptors not to register what his back feels like pressed against my chest. Too late. My heart starts thundering. I can’t remember what happened last.
Did we sleep together? With wires on? And a camera crew?
Did I make the sequel to Sleep Wanker, turning it into an actual porn that Emily would love to name?
Besides the blood pumping through my veins at an alarming rate, I am completely still.
And I stay that way, not willing to risk waking him.
I feel the clothes I’m wearing create a flimsy barrier between us, so at least I’m not naked.
Silver linings. I catch a glimpse of the white T-shirt on my shoulder.
I’m wearing Xander’s clothes. Fuck. Surely, I would know if we had sex.
Like, down there, I would know. Yet, all evidence points to not having a fucking idea in this moment. Fuck.
And as if by some cruel joke, Xander shifts and his firm ass presses against my lady bits. Ignore it.
I need to create as much distance as possible. Maybe I can roll over subtly, go back to “sleep,” and we both naturally wake up on our own sides of the bed. It’ll be my little secret. Yes. Great plan.
I hold my breath and as slowly as possible, I slide my arm back to my side of the bed.
This action elicits a soft groan from Xander.
Oh, shit. Before I can get my arm off him, he reaches for it and pulls me closer, tucking my arm under his arm and anchoring me in place.
There’s a series of soft sleep sounds and I wonder if he’s falling back asleep, but then his entire body stiffens.
He’s awake.
A moment of utter stillness.
I can practically hear his mind processing.
And then he almost throws my arm at me as he scrambles to get up first.
I follow suit, kicking off the sheet and jumping out of bed.
We stand facing each other in some sort of spoon standoff.
And that’s when I see it.
His erection.
He must notice my eyes bug at his crotch because he does something with his boxers in a failed attempt to hide it.
I snap my eyes back to his face. “Did we sleep together?” My voice is raised and I’m on the edge of losing it. I cannot have slept with Xander for the second time. That’s against the rules. Rules that are in place for a reason.
“What? No,” Xander says, and the seriousness of his tone combined with him reaching for his pillow to hold it in front of him is almost comical.
I keep my eyes on his face, waiting for the punchline.
Psych! We did! Hahaha! I raise my eyebrows and cock my head at his pillow without averting my eyes from his face.
My eye contact will burn a hole in his face before I dare to look down there again.
“Your penis seems to suggest otherwise.” My voice is loud and shaky.
“That, is mechanical,” he says, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as the other holds the pillow in place. “We didn’t sleep together. We fell asleep together.” He looks up at me from under his curls that are so relaxed on his forehead they’re probably still sleeping.
My immediate reaction is to excitedly shout at him, “OMG, you slept!” But the logical part of my brain, which is currently wincing at the units of alcohol it’s been forced to deal with, wants to get to the bottom of what happened last night.
The truth is, I know there’s nothing to fess up. I know Xander would never sleep with me drunk. And I hate that I know him this well after seven fucking nights together.
I focus my mind on last night, trying to pull on any thread that’ll give me something, anything to hint at what happened. An unwelcome thought filters through my mind. Okay, we didn’t sleep together, but did I try and kiss him?
An image flutters behind my eyes. Me sitting in Xander’s lap. Lips so close …
The wince on my face must translate into me further questioning his integrity because Xander raises his eyebrows at this. “I’m not one of the assholes from your dating app.”
I scrub my hands down my face and groan at Xander bringing that up.
“Again with that?” I say, almost pleading. I am too hungover to take another trip down memory lane. I mean, I can’t even remember last night.
Another hazy memory surfaces: We’re laughing. At what? No idea. We’re laughing so hard that Xander falls off the bed. A second later he raises his hand, red wine bottle unspilled. I am appalled at the cuteness level of this memory.
“Let’s not forget you were the one spooning me,” he says, snapping me back to the situation at hand. I notice the pillow is no longer required. And he’s put on his jeans. Meanwhile, I’m standing in his sleepwear. I’m losing this battle.
“You were spooning me first,” I say, throwing it back at him, trying to recover some ground.
“What? When?” Xander frowns, no recollection of this.
Another memory of last night makes itself known. Xander, crawling back onto the bed. Me, patting my lap. Him, lying there. Me, stroking his hair. Gross. I am utterly horrified at this. I feel my stomach roil.
“I don’t know, in the middle of the night?” I say, refocusing on Xander and trying my hardest not to projectile vomit at that memory.
“And what’d you do about it?” he says, giving me the full cross-examination. He removes his sleep T-shirt without warning, revealing the hard lines of his stomach and sculpted chest before replacing it with a clean black replica. Turns out there are no tattoos on his torso.
“What?” I say, shaking my head at him in frustration.
“When you realized I was spooning you? What did you do?” he says, articulate as ever, functioning at level 100. I fell back asleep. Still, I don’t say it. I can see a “gotcha” smirk creeping across his face at my silent admission that I did nothing.
“That’s not fair. I was lulled back to sleep,” I say, already realizing I’ve lost.
“You liked it?” he says, embarrassed for the both of us. He shakes his head. “Oh, Ash.”
“I did not,” I say, flailing now.
“I think you like me,” he says, cocky.
“Like you? I don’t even know you,” I say at the exact time I’m interrupted by a female voice.
“Good morning.”
It’s the record scratch that sends both Xander and me snapping our heads to the door because that voice sounds a lot like …
Dr. Waitley.
“Can I have a word with you two in my office, once you’re dressed?” she says. That was a dig at me, since Xander managed to get fully clothed in the span of our fight.
The question is rhetorical. Of course we’re going to her office once we’re dressed. Which is why she doesn’t wait for a reply and disappears.
I stare at the door.
We’re fucked.