I loosened my grip on his shirt. “You’ve known me less than a month.”
“Longest month of my life.” Softly, he pressed his lips where my neck met my shoulder, sending shivers down my spine.
“So what’s the plan? How long are you staying, and when do you —”
“Grace,” he cut me off. When his eyes opened, they weren’t half-lidded with desire; they were narrow slits of exhaustion. “I slept about three hours a night this week. All I want are sleep, food, and you, not necessarily in that order. Can logistics wait until I’ve had at least two of the three?”
I threaded our fingers and led him up. At the top of the stairs, he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling my back into his chest, but I swatted him off with a promise. “Tomorrow.” He muttered about me being a party pooper, but didn’t have the energy for a full sulky complaint.
I slid off his rumpled suit jacket, then started on his shirt buttons. His forehead dropped to mine and he watched my fingers undress him until his eyes drifted closed. When I reached the bottom button and slid his button-down off his arms, his eyes reopened and he purred, “Pants, too?”
“And you told me I was the optimist.” I laughed and guided him by the shoulders towards the bathroom, and holy heck, I wonder if he peed all week. He emerged in just his undershirt and boxers, and without thinking, I averted my eyes. He chuckled, planting a kiss on my temple. “You’re so fucking cute. Do you have an extra toothbrush?”
I found a backup and held it up triumphantly … only to find him passed out face down like a starfish in the middle of my bed. Typical, he even manspreads when he’s sleeping.
I sat on the couch and unfolded the throw blanket when his low voice said my name. He hadn’t moved, but one eye was open. “I didn’t travel all night to sleep alone. Get that sweet ass over here.”
When I climbed in, his arm wrapped around my waist, drawing my back into his chest, aligning my hips with his. He let out a bone deep sigh into my hair and murmured, “Fucking finally,” pressed his lips into my neck, and moments later, he was snoring.
When my alarm buzzed two hours later, I wondered if I’d slept.
He’d crashed, snoring into my shoulder. He still smelled like peppermint and pine, but traffic exhaust and B.O. clung to his skin. His arm was a heavy weight around my midsection.
I wondered why he was here. If he should be here at all.
After the self-defense class wrapped up last Sunday, Kate pulled me aside. “Does Mallory know about you and Alex?”
I’d glanced at the door where he’d left after his gorgeous maybe-girlfriend snapped her fingers and he’d disappeared. I stacked equipment to avoid her curiosity. “There’s nothing to know.”
“Not what it looked like from here,” she said skeptically, lips pursed.
I let my confusion shine through. “I’m not sure what I would tell her.”
Kate scanned my expression, then dropped her shoulders. “Fair. I won’t say anything. But if she found out there was something between you two and you didn’t tell her …” She made an explosion gesture at her temple.
Kate had been right. This was Mallory’s brother, not some guy I could casually hook up with — not that I excelled at that, either. I’d reconciled myself with the fact that I’d never seen him again.
Then he appeared in the middle of the night and kissed me like he’d been suffocating and I was pure oxygen.
Would Mallory forgive me if I hooked up with her brother? Or was I risking the most important relationship in my life for kissing?
Then again, he was a really, really good kisser. I’d never felt this molten desire with anybody else like I had with Alexander Clarke. I’d dated Shannon for years, lived with her, planned marriage and kids with her … and I’d never been so turned on with her as I was from his warm breath on my cheek, a trace of his fingertips along my bicep.
I slid out from under his arm and he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in my pillow with a snort. I went through my morning routine, expecting him to crack open an eye for commentary, but he didn’t stir. I ate breakfast, showered, put on makeup, blowdried my hair … not even a twitch.
Not until I tried to leave a note next to him did those sapphire eyes crack open halfway. “Come back to bed.” When I hesitated, he added, “Please.”
I slid under the sheet and he closed the space between us, wrapping a large hand around my back and dragging me closer. His hand slid down to my hips and around to cup my butt as his legs intertwined with mine. He let out a gross morning breath sigh into my face.
“You didn’t brush your teeth last night," I said.
“I was a little busy kissing you, and I don’t remember you complaining.”
“You fell asleep too quickly to notice.”
“It was a long week,” he sighed with a frown. At such close range, I saw every wrinkle. “Where are you going?”
“Work.”
“On Christmas?”
“You didn’t even know it was Christmas.”
“I do now.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming, so I couldn’t plan around that.” And it still wouldn’t have stopped me. I always work on Christmas.
“So you’re gonna … go?” he asked. “On Christmas?”
“Mental health doesn’t stop because it’s a holiday. Honestly, it’s worse for a lot of people. Plus, I volunteered to cover Thanksgiving and Christmas so I could get time off to go up north with your family.”
“But I want you here.” Then he started singing … or attempting to, anyway. “I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need.”
Wow, his voice was … terrible. I tried to restrain a wince, which only encouraged him, like he knew he couldn’t carry a tune. “I don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree …”
No way was he faking it. A good singer couldn't pretend this badly.
Plus, he was smirking.
