Chapter 4 Sexual Differentiation
SEXUAL DIFFERENTIATION
*Samantha*
Sunlight tickled my eyelids, which was strange, because my bedroom didn’t face east and—hold on.
I wasn’t in my bed.
This pillow felt too solid, too warm, and, if I really paid attention, way too much like human muscle.
There was the clean scent of laundry detergent, yes, but also a deeper, spicy note.
Rosemary, cologne, and warm skin. My left arm was numb from the angle, and my right leg was slung over something firm and unyielding, with my heel pressed hard against the outside of a knee that was definitely not my own unless I’d suddenly developed superhuman flexibility skilz.
I opened one eye and found an expanse of blue silk immediately in front of my nose. It shimmered in the morning light. I recognized the exact shade, not cornflower, not navy, but the rich, almost iridescent blue reserved for high-end men’s pajama suits.
Of course. Because the my subconscious could always be trusted to make things maximally weird. I sleepwalked. Again.
Shifting incrementally, I confirmed the following: My face was smashed against Andreas Kristiansen’s shoulder.
My body was three-fourths on top of him, one-fourth on the couch, like I’d lost a wrestling match with both gravity and personal boundaries.
My left arm was threaded beneath our rib cages, and his right arm was wrapped all the way around my back, palm splayed flat and proprietarily across my bottom.
He was asleep. Or—as I lifted my head from his chest—he looked asleep.
He could have been dead, but the steady rise and fall of his chest, plus the faint sound of him breathing, suggested otherwise.
My thighs, like some kind of traitorous heat-seeking missiles, had made themselves very much at home straddling his.
For a moment I marveled at the contrast; his legs, thick and hard, compared to my own, which were encased in the jersey cotton sleep pants I’d thrown on last night.
Tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling, I tried to reverse engineer the sequence of events that had deposited me in this arrangement.
Last night, after the Henrik incident, I’d sat on the couch with Andreas.
We drank tea, ate cookies, talked in a way that was two degrees too honest, and then, at some point, we’d hugged. I distinctly remembered hugging him.
Then I went to my room, changed into pajamas, brushed my teeth, took the time to do my entire skincare regiment—which was unusual for me, I mostly considered the purchasing of cosmetic items aspirational in nature—and then I went into my room, barricaded the door with furniture and the bins full of my stuff, and I went to sleep.
But then I must have left my room and sleepwalked, right on top of Andreas.
And he must have, for whatever reason, decided it was preferable to let a full-grown woman use him as a pillow rather than disturb her. He’s so weird.
My psychiatrist was going to have a field day. The time had come. I couldn’t put it off. I had to schedule an appointment. I would call her first thing when I got to work, insurance be damned.
Closing my eyes, I weighed my options.
Option A: Extract myself from this sexy European cuddle trap without waking him. This would require flexibility, stealth, and possibly a team of riggers from Cirque du Soleil.
Option B: Accept my fate, go back to sleep, and deal with the fallout later. Pros: no immediate effort. Cons: inevitable awkwardness.
Option C: Use the opportunity to analyze Andreas until I spotted a flaw.
Did he snore? Was he a sleep-talker? Would he, if I yelled “Fire!” abandon me for the nearest exit?
If I stared at him long enough, would his face reveal a previously unseen defect?
Was he, in the immortal words of Cher from Clueless, actually a Monet—put together from far away but a total mess up close?
I decided on option A, only because the sun was rising rapidly and I needed to get to work sooner rather than later.
I began the detachment process—disengage left arm, lift head, and pivot right leg off his lap. What I failed to account for was the fact that Andreas’s grip on my butt was, even in sleep, tenacious.
As soon as I tried to slide away, his arm cinched tighter, and his other hand came up to grip my upper thigh, pulling me flush against him.
I froze. Because, ladies, he had a massive third-leg situation going on.
Andreas’s unmistakable erection pressed indecently—but so delightfully—against my vagina, and the last tendrils of my sleepiness fled in an instant.
Then, quite suddenly, Andreas awoke. One moment comatose, the next his eyes flying open, expression blank. He blinked several times, then his gaze zeroed in on me, wide and fuzzy, but not surprised.
“Good morning,” I said, because what else does one say in this situation? There is no script for waking up on someone’s lap, unless you’re in an anime, and I lacked the requisite blue hair, DD cup size, and accidental panty flash.
Plus, being totally honest, since last night, when he’d hugged me on the sidewalk, I now felt this low hum of tension, something like electricity, when we were together. A hyperawareness. It made thinking difficult and kept getting in the way of clever word choice.
Andreas blinked at me again, and I watched as his brain caught up with the situation, specifically the time, place, person, limb arrangement, and hand position.
His cheeks did that fascinating thing where they turned pink and the color bloomed outward.
With a flinching motion, he loosened his grip, his hands flying away, and he took a deep breath.
“Samantha.” His voice was so hoarse I wondered if he’d slept at all. “Did you sleep well?”
“I . . . think so?” I scootched backward, away from his mast of morning wood. His hands returned to my body as though to steady me, settling lightly on my waist. “What happened?” I asked, fairly certain I knew, but I wanted to hear his side.
“I was sitting on the couch after you left, reading. Around midnight, you came out of your room, sleepwalking again.”
I groaned and covered my face with both hands. “Did I—oh God. Did I say anything? Or do anything weird? I mean, other than sit on your lap.”
He considered this, then shook his head.
“No. You were walking to my room, I think. I called out your name. You stopped, stood there for a moment. You turned and walked over to me. Then you, uh, you sat on me, as you are now, and went to sleep. Or, I guess, stayed asleep, but in this position.” He swallowed, the sound audible and oddly endearing.
“So, you just . . . let me sleep on you. All night.” I could feel the flush creeping up my own neck now, both from frustration and a growing sense of something less platonic. And, you know, the aforementioned hyperawareness.
Andreas nodded, turning his head away to yawn. When he finished, he glanced back at me, and for a split second, his eyes flicked down to my mouth. It was subtle—blink and you’d miss it—but I didn’t miss it.
Oh no! Does my breath stink?
I covered my mouth as more upsetting possibilities unsexified situation. I must’ve drooled on him. Or snored. Or, worst of all, ground my teeth. Nothing sexy about teeth grinding.
I needed to say something. Anything. But without letting him smell my morning breath.
“Are your legs okay?” I blurted, still holding my hand in front of my mouth like a female judge on Iron Chef Japan. “Can you feel them? Will you ever walk again? Have I paralyzed you?”
He regarded me with a mixture of what looked like amusement and something I couldn’t name, glancing at the hand covering my mouth and lifting an eyebrow. “They are a little—uh—stiff,” he said, and the way he said it, slow and deliberate, sent a little shiver down my back.
I snorted, then cringed. Nothing sexy about snorting. Or cringing. I mean, name one situation where it’s sexy to cringe.
And yet I still sat on his lap, straddling him, and I knew—though I could no longer feel it due to my earlier scootch back—his very hard cock was mere inches from my very open legs.
Yeeeeeah. I needed to get off his lap. Like, right now.
“Anyway!” Turning my face to the side to point my morning breath elsewhere, I set my hands on the couch behind him and pushed, forcing my legs to work even as they protested. My hips spasmed, obviously not liking the position my unconscious brain had preferred for last night’s sleep.
I felt Andreas’s hands on my waist tighten, probably thinking I might face-plant without assistance, but then he let me go. Ungracefully, I dismounted his lap. My inner thighs ached, reminding me of that one time in elementary school when I’d been forced to ride a horse for six hours. THE WORST!
Finally separated from the ridiculously sexy man I shared an apartment and revenge destiny with, I pushed my back against the arm of the couch and brought my knees up, wrapping my arms around my legs.
Once I was off, he immediately reached to the side and placed a throw pillow on his lap, clearing his throat.
Andreas was in another fancy pajama set.
I suspected the top had been perfectly pressed last night before he’d donned it.
Perhaps it had also been buttoned up to his collarbones, but the top two buttons were undone now, hinting at the smooth skin beneath and the elegance of his bone structure.
And, boy oh boy, did he give good clavicle.
Tearing my eyes away, I made a mental note to one day count how many pajama sets this man owned, because so far I’d seen two, and each looked like it came with a monogrammed handkerchief and a complimentary monocle.
Thank goodness I’d put on a huge long-sleeve T-shirt and baggy sweatpants last night. In all honesty, I’d chosen these clothes just in case I did sleepwalk. I didn’t want to wake up pantsless like yesterday.
But . . . Hmm.