Chapter 26
I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’M HAVING an out-of-body experience, because a moment later, I’m in the stairwell to Ian’s apartment. He opens the door ahead of me and steps back to let me pass.
I stay where I am, seized by the sudden awareness that this is actually happening. “Are you sure? Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to alphabetize your books?” I waggle my fingers at him with cartoonish menace. “Rearrange your closet by color?”
“With those nails, that’s actually kind of threatening.” He tips his head, encouraging me forward. “Generous of you to assume I have books, though.”
I laugh but stay put.
Ian must realize that I’m incapacitated, because he smiles, coming down a few steps on the stairs. He stands two below me, so that I’m slightly above him. “You okay?”
“I have… concerns.”
He leans against the railing. “Let’s hear ’em.”
“I’m afraid that if I go in there and it’s anything like the Dawghouse was when I moved it, it will totally smother the crush I have on you.”
His face lights up so completely at this, I can’t be embarrassed at the overshare. “You have a crush on me?”
“Obviously. And whatever. You’re crushing on me, too.”
“True.” He leans closer, his face distractingly close. “Full disclosure? There’s a drawer open in my dresser,” he stage-whispers. “I was just trying to figure out how to get in there and close it without you noticing. But I did make the bed—”
“That’s my other concern! If you’re secretly a pillar of organization, I don’t know that I’ll be able to stop from throwing myself onto this meticulously made bed of yours in surrender.” I press out my lower lip, beseeching. “I’m only human.”
“Hmm.” The thoughtful sounds rumbles the space between us. He studies my lips, then seems to remember that we’ve broken the seal on kissing, because he smiles, half shy, half wicked, and plants one on me.
His lips a fraction of an inch from mine, he says, “Tell you what.” Another brush of lips. “We’re going to go inside.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, eyes closed.
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “You’re going to look around, take it in.” His lips trail along my jaw, and I fumble for the railing with one hand, fingernails digging into the wood as I shiver. “Probably judge me for my books.”
“Nonfiction?” I say, breathless.
“With the exception of Tolkien?” He nuzzles the hollow of my throat. “Almost exclusively.”
My hands make their way to his chest, sliding to his shoulders. “Shame.” I flutter my eyelids open to find him smiling up at me. “At least you’re pretty.”
He laughs. “And then we’re going to nap.”
I knead the muscle of his shoulders, grounding myself in the heat of him. “You really think we’ll get in a bed and nap?”
“On the bed. I’m not making it a second time today. And you were the one yawning in my face earlier,” he reminds me. “We’ll nap, and then, if we have the time, since we’ve been standing here forever, we will explore one another’s bodies until I have to go down and coach.”
Holy shit, that was decisive. So much so that it completely derails my anxiety. I nod.
“Excellent. Now, ladies first.”
I turn and ascend the last few steps, Ian behind me.
Inside, I find a bright studio apartment.
Very bright; the windows and skylights let in so much sunshine that he doesn’t even have to turn on a light as we move through the room that I am already committing to memory.
To the left of the door, there’s an L-shaped kitchenette with a farmhouse-style sink—unexpected—and a metal prep table.
The fridge is a smaller version of the one downstairs, with a sliding door, like in a convenience store.
The whole thing is just discordant enough to work.
I point at the fridge, which has a different energy drink logo emblazoned across the top than the lobby’s. “Were you two-timing a sponsor?”
“They tried to get me, but this one tastes like someone ground a multivitamin into a La Croix. I couldn’t have my name associated with something I couldn’t bring myself to consume.”
Hot. “You kept the fridge?”
“They never asked for it back.”
“How do you do that?” I ask. “On the one hand, you kind of scammed your way to a free fridge, but on the other, you did so with a balance of personal integrity and dumb ol’ practicality. That’s hot, Ian. Like everything you do.” I sigh. “It’s so annoying.”
His laugh is a surprised bark. I turn away, under the guise of studying the room. Unfiltered honesty is really working for me. Speak first, worry later. How Dawghouse!
I continue my inventory. Vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, so, so many places to hang plants.
A bookshelf with a surprising number of good-sized hardcovers, though I force myself not to scan the titles.
Past the kitchen is a living space with a tan leather couch and a flat-screen TV, as well as a coffee table.
I wonder if the furniture had been purchased before or after his time with the guys.
I take in the bedroom area, dominated by a king-sized bed replete with a bed frame. The top drawer of his dresser is open, like he said, but otherwise, the space is neat as a pin.
He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, “So?”
I mimic his stance. “So, what?”
He reaches for me, pulling me against him, and I wrap my arms around his neck. “Are you crawling out of your skin?”
“Are you going to show me the bathroom?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then—and be honest—do you keep your toothbrush in the shower?”
He half smiles. “It’s efficient.”
I cringe, fighting a shudder that’s only partially for show. Ian laughs.
“It’s on the soap dish,” he continues, running his hands up and down my sides. “The toothpaste, too.”
I shake my head, but it’s at myself, not him. A shower toothbrush has never been a deal-breaker, but seeing one puts me on guard. At least it always has before. But not now.
Ian wiggles his brows, delighting in my torment.
This man.
I sigh. “You really want to nap?”
In answer, he grins, and tumbles back onto the bed, bringing me down with him.
I guess so.
I wake up swaddled in Man Mountain. He is a living weighted blanket, his heavy arm over me, forearm wedged between my boobs, his hand tucked beneath my cheek.
I make an exploratory attempt to roll away, and his hold tightens, the flex of his arm securing me to him again. He grunts and nuzzles into my neck.
It’s decided. I’ll stay here forever.
As my body settles into its new residence, my mind reels with the impossibility of my morning.
The dizzy spell. Ian’s one-on-one lifting lesson.
Our literal one-on-one. The fact that at this exact moment, I am on his bed, draped in his exceptional form, which was, not long ago, expressing base intentions toward my very receptive self.
He shifts, and the hand at my cheek drifts down my sternum, halting when he gets to my left breast. I stop breathing.
Another grunt. This one…curious. A gentle squeeze, and my body reacts, arching against hand and hips encouragingly.
His hips press against me in response, and there’s no missing the rigid heat making contact with my rear. Oh, my.
Behind me, Ian’s breathing maintains the steady rhythm of sleep.
His hand continues to knead, and heat gathers low in my belly.
His thumb brushes my nipple, and the intimate contact has me gasping.
Good Lord I’m starved for this. Semiconscious groping through a sports bra and tank has me writhing like a cat in heat.
A mechanical vibration picks up on the bed, and I freeze. Ian’s arm shifts below the pillow we share, and I watch him thumb the screen of his phone to silence the alarm. He lets out a snuffling sound, resuming his massage of my breast—
His hand stops mid-squeeze.
I laugh. “How’s that boob treating you?”
“Oh, my God,” he breathes. He releases my breast slowly, giving it an apologetic double pat. “I’m so sorry.”
“You sure?” I shift my backside against the absolutely raging erection nestled against me. “This doesn’t feel like sorry.”
He groans, backing off just enough to separate from my tush. “It was a really good nap!”
“You don’t say?” I roll over to face him. His expression is appropriately abashed, chin tucked and eyes wide. But he’s trying not to smile.
“It’s a really good boob, too,” he says, losing his fight and grinning. “Since you asked.”
“Thank you. We were enjoying your attention.”
For a few heartbeats, we stay on our sides, watching one another. I wonder how much time we have before he has to coach. But I can’t seem to look away from him long enough to check my watch.
Deciding that the activities of the past however long it has been means we’re open to casual intimate contact, I press a hand to his chest. He holds it against him, taking in a long breath and exhaling slowly, eyes still locked on mine.
His heartbeat is steady, but each throb punches against my palm.
My voice is thick as I say, “Hi, there.”
“Hi. You sleep like the dead.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”
His brow arches, and his hand releases mine, closing over my hip, his thumb pressing meaningfully. I arch into the contact. “Is that so?”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Ah. Good point,” he says, and tugs me closer. I drape a leg over his side, and he grabs onto it, hand smoothing up the length of my thigh to the leg of my shorts.
A faint twinge of anxiety goes off in my chest. As much as I’d like to linger in this lazy, sexy limbo, I’m too much Regular Life Ellie to tolerate its ambiguity. “What are we doing?”
He laughs. “Hayes, I swear, if you’re trying to label this out of some kind of need for control—”
“I need parameters! I’m not in a good decision-making period.” I squeeze my leg over his hip in emphasis, but it undermines my point; hugging onto him in any capacity feels like a really good call.
The hand on my thigh maneuvers to my rear. I was right. Excellent choice on my part.