Chapter 8
Eight
Lacey
I wake up disoriented. I'm trapped under something hot and heavy. A body?
Eddie? Eddie doesn't snuggle.
I left Eddie because he's a cheating, philandering, abusive bastard.
So then who…?
Cole.
Now I remember.
I was at the Cellar until eight-thirty or so, sipping wine and chatting with Layla Cartwright, with whom I'd exchanged a few friendly texts throughout the day after trying their cafe, The Alt, for breakfast yesterday morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep filled with dreams of Cole.
I'd gotten up to go pee and when I came back, a handsome young deputy was chatting up Layla, and over the course of the conversation, it came out that he'd spent the day riding along with Cole, and that they'd dealt with a tragic wreck—Carter's voice and face were haunted just mentioning it.
He'd also told me that Cole had made sure to deal with the hardest parts himself, giving Carter the less traumatizing aspects, but that it had been one of the worst things he'd ever seen, and that even Cole had seemed shaken up afterward.
If Cole is anything like he used to be, I knew, he'd have pretended to be unaffected, and despite how close he is to the guys, I also know they don't tend to be super nurturing with each other except under extreme circumstances. Mostly, their relationships are centered around beer and whiskey and insults. At least, that’s how it used to be; maybe they’ve matured since then, I don’t know.
I just had a feeling that Cole needed someone, and I couldn't stop myself from reaching out.
I don't remember falling asleep. I remember sitting with his head on my lap, stroking his hair and beard as he twitched his way to sleep. I remember thinking about how teenage Cole would never have opened up to me like he did last night.
Is it fucked up that him being emotionally vulnerable with me turned me on?
I take stock—I'm under the covers, somehow, and Cole is wrapped around me like an octopus, his head on my belly and his arms cinched around my hips.
God, it feels way too fucking good, being close to Cole like this. Holding him. Comforting him.
I crack an eye and peer around, looking for his alarm clock—5:35 am.
God, I hate my internal clock. I used to be able to sleep until ten or eleven at least, even in my twenties.
But then I married Eddie, who is an early riser—the kind that feels superior to everyone else because he gets up at 4:45 to work out and shower before work.
Which would be fine, except he expected me to have coffee and breakfast ready for him at six-thirty.
So now, even though I no longer have to wait on that lazy, useless, entitled shit-stick anymore, my body doesn’t know that and thinks I still have to wake up at six.
Yet as I lay with Cole's big, heavy body half-pinning me to the mattress, his hands clutching my hips and his face inches from my privates, I feel like I could almost fall back asleep. Usually I can't…
But Cole is warm, and his breathing is soft and slow, and my eyes close again. I feel drowsy, and then sleepy. I drift toward sleep, and for a second, I can imagine that this is just life. Me and Cole, just like this.
The next time I wake up, it's after six and I'm on my left side, facing away from Cole.
Who is spooning me.
And his hand is low on my belly. My shirt has ridden up, so his hand is resting on my belly.
Which I hate having touched. I hate the bunchy, wrinkled skin.
Mainly, I hate that Eddie hated it. I hate how he looked at it in disgust. How he’d ask if there wasn’t anything I could do to make it less disgusting-looking?
I refused to get plastic surgery on it out of some kind of perverse fuck you to him.
Which, I suppose, stems from the resentment I feel at having let him coerce and bully and shame me into a breast augmentation—a wholly unnecessary one, since I had what I thought were pretty decent boobs, and it's not like I breastfed with them, so they weren't all that saggy or anything. He just wanted them bigger.
I hate him for that almost as much as the cheating with the nineteen-year-old.
For making me feel not good enough, ever, in any way.
Cole's hand twitches in his sleep, gripping a handful of my belly skin, and I can't stop myself from grabbing his hand and shoving it away.
Which lasts for all of ten seconds before Octopus Man grumbles in his sleep and shifts behind me, pushing his hips against my buttocks.
Oh.
Oh god.
Oh my.
Certain portions of his anatomy are…um…awake. Very, very awake.
And pressed very firmly against my ass cheeks.
Big.
Thick.
Hard as a rock.
So big.
Did I say big?
I whimper in my throat quietly, drag in a shaky breath, and then pull my hips forward, away from his erection.
And of course, he follows me. And his arm slings over my hip, tugging me back against him.
Good grief.
Octopus Man's hand finds skin again, and this time, before I can stop him, his hand slides up under my twisted, rucked-up shirt.
He grasps my breast, squeezing it gently.
I can't breathe.
It feels…good.
Too good.
Way, way too good.
I shut my eyes and breathe, or try to. I grab his wrist and try to move his hand, but get nowhere.
Fuck.
I like his hand there.
If I'm being honest, I love it.
If I'm being even more honest, I’ve masturbated more than a few times over the years to fantasies a lot like this, where I wake up in bed with Cole and he touches me, and then we make love, and all he cares about is my pleasure—something Eddie never did, not once, not ever.
I keep trying to move his hand before my desperate, pathetic, all-consuming need for love and affection takes over and has me doing things I know Cole doesn't want.
This is sleepy instinct, no more. There's no desire. No attraction. No need. Certainly no love.
My eyes burn and sting as I wrestle with his hand, but he's too strong, and he's not even really trying.
I hear him mumble something unintelligible, and then he shifts behind me, once again pressing that huge hard-on into my ass cheeks while nuzzling between my shoulder blades with his nose, and his hand tightens on my boob.
His thumb brushes my nipple, and I can’t stifle a gasp—my nipples are very erect at the moment, and hyper sensitive.
"Mmm?" His wordless question is a gruff, puzzled growl. "Whazzit?"
I have his wrist in a death-grip, but now I’m not sure if I'm actually trying to push it away anymore, or if I'm just trying to stop myself from arching into his touch.
"Cole?" I whisper. "You awake?"
"Mmmm," he hums. "Mmmm-mmm."
I let out a slow breath. "Cole."
"Hmmm."
"Wake up."
"Mmmm-mmm."
His arm tightens around my middle, his hand momentarily releasing my breast to make a soft, sliding circuit over my diaphragm, then my belly, and then lower, his fingertips teasing along the waistband of my leggings.
Shit, shit, shit, no. I'm not strong enough to resist you like this, Cole. I think it, but don’t say it.
I feel him shift, nudge his hips against my backside, and his erection nestles deeper between my buttocks.
Fuck, that feels good. I want to reach back and grip that monster so damned badly.
It's been so long since I've felt anything positive, mentally, emotionally, or physically, and I know damn well Cole Mannix could make me feel so good…
I moan helplessly as his fingers ease away from my waistband and drift upward once more to cup the weight of my boob. I turn my face into the pillow and bite back a breathy whimper of pleasure at the way his hand feels there, cupping my breast, thumb circling against my turgid nipple.
"Lace?" His voice is slow and thick with sleep.
"Cole?" I answer in a whisper, mimicking his questioning tone.
I feel the moment full awareness hits him—his whole body tenses behind me and his breath catches…and his hand tightens on my breast for a moment.
And then he's abruptly gone, across the room in a single bound, hands braced against his closed door, head hanging between his thick, burly, sun-bronzed arms. His back is broad and rippling with perfect muscle.
He's clad in nothing but a pair of skin-tight black boxer-briefs that hug the supple bubble of muscle that is his cannonball ass.
"I'm sorry," he rasps. "I wasn't aware."
“I know,” I whisper. "It's okay."
He shakes his head. “It's not. I was groping you."
“I didn’t exactly mind, Cole—fuck." I slap my hand over my mouth the second the words leave my lips. "You didn't hear that."
His head slowly swivels to peer at me over one huge, heavy shoulder. "Don't, Lace. Do not do that to me."
"Do what?" I ask, genuinely puzzled.
"Fake anything to make me feel better."
"Fake? What am I faking?"
"Not minding me having my big dumb hands all over you." His voice is hoarse and low. "You don't have to be nice to me. You…I'm grateful, Lace. For last night. I was—I was really struggling, and you were there for me. I appreciate it. But you don't owe me anything other than answers."
I cross the room and stand behind him. His shoulders lift, harden at my proximity—he senses me, feels me, smells me.
I reach out tentatively, rest a hand on his hot skin—and my god, his shoulder is so thick, so hard.
"I'm not faking anything, Cole." Closer, so the heat of his back pushes against my front.
"I owe you answers. I know that. I promised them to you, and I’ll honor that.
But being here for you last night had nothing to do with that.
I don't know why, but I just knew you needed a friend, and I was—and am—glad to be that for you. "
“I was groping your chest."
"Yes," I agree. "You were."
He glances down at himself. "I had my—I was—against your…" A look back at me, then.
I certainly don't miss how his eyes linger on my chest—I must have taken off the sweatshirt at some point, because I'm only wearing a thin black camisole with my leggings.
And the camisole is entirely unequal to the impossible task of containing my boobs—they sway against the silk, feeling heavy, aching. My nipples are prominent.