27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Joss
T he hum of voices drifts through my consciousness from the other side of the bedroom door. It’s just loud enough to keep me from falling into the deep oblivion of sleep that beckons me. With the click of the front door closing, the quiet engulfs me again.
“Hey, beautiful.” The whispered words match the featherlight touch of Wes’s hand moving my hair off my face. I want to sink into that touch. “Do you want me to take you back to your place?”
Do I want that? I reject the idea by burrowing farther into the soft, warm mattress, pulling the blanket closer to my chin. Nope, I don’t want to go anywhere. I just want sleep. A slight shake of my head and a little pout earn me a chuckle from the man by my side .
“Okay, sweetheart.” A brush of lips against my forehead draws a mewling sigh from my lips. Could he stay there, just like that, forever? “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”
The couch? Why is he going to the couch? My subconscious perks up just enough to tell me that is not where I want him. Of course, I shouldn’t want him at all, but alas, my sleepy mind isn’t functioning at that high a level. My arm, heavy as lead, reaches after him, grabbing his hand in mine.
“Stay. Please.”
Even without opening my eyes, I know he’s debating what he should do.
Please . Stay . They’re the only words in my foggy mind, like a skipping record. Please. Stay. Stay. Please.
His hand feels so big in mine, engulfing it in his warmth. A squeeze for reassurance.
“Okay.” One word. That’s all he mutters, but it’s enough. I release his hand and finally give my body over to sleep.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up feeling both too hot and too cold. The throw blanket I’m using is insufficient for all-over warmth, yet my jeans are stifling. My brain feels foggy and I’m confused. Why am I still wearing jeans? Why am I not under my comforter?
I shimmy out of them and fling them to the floor with a thud. The throw is gone too, likely having slithered down to the floor in all my wiggling, but I don’t need it now. I scooch the comforter down just enough to slide under it, and the cool fabric against my skin is soft and welcoming. The hazy part of my brain takes note of the different feel of the sheets, the denser pillow under my head, but then the haze thickens to a full fog and I’m lost down the rabbit hole of exhaustion once again.
Sunlight streaming through open windows draws me to the surface like a moth to a flame. My eyes are squeezed shut, but the light feels blinding all the same. Red spots pop behind my eyelids like little fireworks. Why is the sun torturing me? I have blackout curtains for this very reason. I throw an arm over my face to block it out, not yet ready to wake up.
Something else needles at my subconscious despite my attempts to ignore it. No, not something—someone. Someone with warm, bare skin pressed against my own. I register the legs first, tangled with mine. Then the heavy weight across my midsection, holding me in place where I lie on my back. I remove my arm from across my eyes and squint, watching as the form beside me takes shape in perfect clarity.
Wes is asleep on his side, wrapped around me with a contented look on his face. He’s relaxed, no lines or worry marring his flawless features. It’s unfair how beautiful he is.
My eyes drift lower, noting that he’s shirtless. Oh so very shirtless. His torso is a work of art, etched and chiseled from hours spent in the gym or on a surfboard. Someone should sculpt this man. Though, no matter their skill, they’d never get it right. Each defined muscle, the pink puckered skin of his scar, every detail. I want to trace them all, and not just with my fingers .
I squeeze my eyes shut again. Jesus .
I chalk my straying thoughts up to the fact that my best friend’s half naked body is pressed against my side and I have very little self-control before my morning coffee. That much is clear when I open my eyes and continue my perusal of his body. His arm is slung across my abdomen, possessive in how his fingers dip around the side of my waist. The muscles of his abs flow into an impressive V that disappears below the waistband of his—wait, is he wearing only underwear right now? Must be, because there is no second waistband in sight that would maybe, you know, belong to a pair of pants or shorts.
At this very opportune moment, my brain reminds me that I took off my own pants last night in a fit of exhaustion and discomfort. So, here we are. Both very nearly naked and pressed awfully close together. Wes’s hand rests between the wide band of my thong and the white fabric of my cami, which has ridden up to my ribs in my sleep. The soft hair of his forearm, with its sinewy muscles and veins, tickles across my stomach and sends a shiver down my spine.
The subtle movement causes Wes to stir, just enough for his hand to tighten on my waist, pulling me closer to him. Warm, so warm, and the hard lines of his body press solidly against mine—
Oh my god. Is that…? That cannot be what I think it is. But one more slight press of his hips into my side and a quick glance down tells me that yup , it absolutely is. Breathe, Joss. This is completely normal male behavior. He’s sleeping. It’s morning. This has nothing to do with me. Or my body being the one he’s pressed against. Just a natural reaction. This is fine. Totally fine .
Except, my body is reacting to his body reacting and I. AM. NOT. FINE. The heat in my cheeks is nothing compared to the inferno raging through the rest of me. I’m going to combust at any moment if I don’t extricate myself from this man. Like, now.
I can do this.
An image of a magician yanking a tablecloth out from beneath dishes flits through my mind and distracts me from all the other thoughts in my head. Good, that’s good. Okay, quick like a magician. I tense, ready to pull away, only to find myself tugged onto my side, facing Wes instead. His arm is banded around my back now, my chest pressed to his. My hand braces against his shoulder as his leg slides between mine, entangling us further.
I have to bite my lip to stifle a groan, or is it a moan? Hell, what’s the difference? He’s doing this on purpose, right? There’s no way he’s still asleep. I study his face, looking for evidence that he’s messing with me. But no, his breathing is even, unlike mine which is fast and shallow, matching my heart rate.
What do I do now?
I need to move away. Seriously, I need to do literally anything other than continue to lie here getting hot and bothered. Because I am getting hot and bothered. But I don’t and, like it has a mind of its own, my hand moves from his shoulder up to his neck to tangle in the curls there. Stupid, traitorous appendage. My nails scratch softly at his scalp and a rumbly growl escapes him that I feel all the way to my toes. I trail my gaze to his face. His eyes are open now, locked on mine, and even though they’re heavy with sleep, the heat in them burns me to my core .
His hand flexes on my hip, over the band of my underwear. “You’re not wearing any pants, sweetheart.” His voice comes out gravelly, either from just waking up or from desire, I can’t be sure. He keeps his eyes pinned to mine, not looking down to where our lower bodies lie exposed, the comforter having shifted somewhere along the way.
“Neither are you,” I whisper, glancing down to where our bodies are pressed together.
“Eyes up here, Grey.” The command snaps my eyes back to his. “We already know you like what you see. Now tell me, do you like what you feel?”
His leg shifts, and with how it’s bracketed between my own, I feel that movement everywhere. How does he have the power to electrify my body this way? It’s like watching lightning arch and arc through the sky during a thunderstorm. It originates in one spot but branches out, lighting up everything in its path. I’m the one moaning this time, and he chuckles darkly, air puffing against the top of my head where it’s level with his mouth.
“Is that a yes?”
I can’t find words for everything I’m feeling right now, so a nearly imperceptible nod is the best I can offer. He leans his forehead down to meet mine, eyes squeezing shut, restraint evident in the tension pulling at his neck and shoulders. I feel every small flex and movement under my hand and reflexively squeeze at the back of his neck. He’s holding himself back, and part of me understands why—I’m doing it too—but the other part of me wants to beg him to let go, consequences be damned .
“I want to touch you.” His words are a growl through clenched teeth, making everything in my body tighten. The tension between us pulls taut like a bowstring, my self-control an arrow against it, the timbre of his voice making it quiver, ready to fly.
“Can I touch you?” Each syllable is pained as his lips move to my neck, just below my ear. Not quite touching, but so close. “Please, Joss.”
It’s not his playful Grey or endearing sweetheart , but my real name. And the reverence with which it’s said breaks the last vestiges of my control and sends that arrow sailing.
“Wes.” It’s a plea for him as I tighten my grip in his hair. His eyes, blue and churning with desire, meet mine once again, but he doesn’t move to touch me.
“I need to hear you say it, Joss. I need the words. Need to know you’re here with me.”
Where else could I possibly be? I am lost in him, in this moment, in his touch. The words slip from me like a prayer. “Touch me.”
His lips slant over mine.
This kiss is soft and languid. Almost like dancing with a new partner when you’re still figuring each other out. His hand slides to cup my face, and I melt into him with a sigh. The parting of my lips flips a switch and we both become more insistent, unrelenting, in our attempts to get closer. We roll as one until he’s braced above me with a hand on either side of my head, my thighs hugging his hips where they press into mine.
He takes my mouth with kisses that are barely on this side of control. His tongue ravishes my mouth, and I nip at it. He responds by sucking my bottom lip between his teeth. It’s push and pull, a different kind of dance now. Our chests heave against each other, sharing the same air, and it’s not enough. I pull at his hair with both hands, looking for purchase in a moment when I feel untethered from myself and everything around me.
He releases my mouth and moves down the side of my neck. Oh god, I’m going to combust. Just burst into flames right here and incinerate us both. His lips are thorough as they wander. Side of my neck—nip, kiss, suck. Collarbone—nip, kiss, suck. Shoulder—nip, kiss, suck. Hollow of my throat. Down my sternum. Each touch leaves flushed, sensitive skin in its wake.
He stops where my cami covers my heaving chest.
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. How he seems so in control, I’ll never know.
I wish I could say the same for myself. I am a mess of want, and my whole body shivers as his breath falters against my heated skin. His eyes lift just enough to meet mine, questioning. I give another nod, words still failing me. If I had the brain power to form words, I’d be talking myself out of this whole thing, but unfortunately—or fortunately , rather—I don’t.
“You are so damn beautiful.”
I flush a deeper shade of red, the unexpected compliment taking me by surprise. I close my eyes, feeling suddenly shy, exposed. I have never been more vulnerable with a man than I have been with Wes. The thought scares me as much as it excites me. Because this is Wes. My best friend. Oh god, what are we doing?
My lungs catch, unable to breathe, as his teeth graze the top of my tank, catching the fabric between them. His fingers loop around each strap, peeling them down inch by inch —
Knock, knock, knock.
The neckline of my cami snaps back against my skin while Wes’s fingers freeze, straps pulled just to the tips of my shoulders. His head lifts until our gazes lock. The quiet is deafening. Maybe we imagined it?
Knock, knock, knock.
We startle at the sound, as if we weren’t expecting it to come a second time. His fingers slip away as he pushes himself up, bracing on both hands and head snapping toward the source of the noise.
The burning heat of the moment turns to ice. Not from the heavy dose of reality at what we were about to do, the line we almost just crossed. No. It’s the voice I hear that acts as a frigid plunge pool to my body, my mind. Everything inside me goes numb in an instant as my mother calls my name from beyond the front door.