I don’t understand. “Let him go.”
“Natalie, wake up. Natalie.”
A bubble pops, and I’m back in the present. In my dark living room, someone’s body pressed against the length of mine.
“Hey.” Cole’s voice is soft, and his grip on my wrists eases. “You’re okay. Just a dream.”
I exhale hard, but my breath still comes quick and shaky. Tension evaporates, but I still feel the grungy darkness all around me. “Shit.”
“There you go.” Cole brushes the hair off my face, and my eyes adjust to the darkness.
“Oh my God.” Adrenaline still courses through my veins, making my heartbeat speed and skip. The hardness of Cole’s body sinks in, followed by the silkiness of warm skin.
I don’t remember lying down on the couch, don’t remember Cole taking off his shirt. I immediately take stock of my own body and find myself fully clothed. But I also feel a very rigid, warm erection pressed against my lower belly. It’s been a long time since I felt one, but there’s no mistaking it.
A surge of need buffets me. The fierce, edgy kind I felt when he kissed me. The deep, achy need I get when I fantasize about him. Those fantasies felt like a harmless pastime up until right this minute.
Now, I rest my forehead against his chest, struggling to find my reasonable, rational side. The side that would tell me not to act on this physical and emotional surge of lust.
But, God, he feels good.
“Why is your shirt off?” My voice is soft, but the underlying desire sounds thick to me. I wonder if he hears it.
“You’re a snuggler,” he says. “I got hot.”
I laugh, a single puff of embarrassed humor. Then we go quiet. Cole’s hand slides through my hair. My mind is still floating between waking and sleep. My body aching to rub against his. My lips restless to kiss, my tongue to taste.
“Cole…” I manage to keep the words I want you from coming out, but I swear they still permeate the air surrounding us.
“I know.” Desire rumbles in his words. His fingers flex and clench in my hair.
He lets out a long sigh. His hips shift, and he moans. Then he tips my head back, and the light from the street illuminates the need etched into his handsome face.
I don’t think, I just stretch up and press my lips to his.
“Mmmm.” His murmur is filled with relief and desire and, yeah, pain.
He pulls away, tilts his head and kisses me harder, longer. His stubble is rough on my lips and face, keeping me in the moment, assuring me this is real, not a dream. His lips are full and soft. I love the way he explores every inch of my mouth, kissing me in more ways than I knew existed.
The warmth of his tongue on my lower lip strikes lust at my core. I open to him and meet his tongue eagerly. And, God, he tastes so good. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve felt a man’s touch, a man’s kiss, a man’s desire. I’m as dry as the desert, and Cole is a gushing spring stream.
He holds my head with both hands, much the way he did last night, keeping me where he can kiss me and kiss me and kiss me. My hands learn the contours of his strong chest and rigid abs. My sex aches.
Without warning, he breaks the kiss, breathing hard. My lips find his throat, his neck, his jaw, his ear.
He pulls away, scooting farther out from under me. “If we don’t stop,” he says, his breathing quick and shallow, “I won’t be able to.”
A surge of lust cuts a path directly between my legs, and the first words that come to mind are I don’t want to stop, because that’s what my body and heart are screaming. But my brain clicks on, bringing rational thought and clear consequences, cooling everything down. And, shit, I’m ashamed and embarrassed. I’m hurt too.
“Right.” I sit back on my heels. All his warmth is gone in an instant. “You’re right.
I start to say “I’m sorry,” but the memory of the way he barked at me when I said it last night keeps the words in my mouth. I rub my face with both hands, slide them into my hair and drag it off my face. Now that there’s distance and a little more logic between us, I’m glad he had the presence of mind to stop. If I’m this ashamed after a kiss, I’d be mortified after we’d had sex. He may have just saved our friendship.
I push to my feet. “I’m going to, um, go into the bedroom. Do you need anything?”
His back is propped up on the arm of the sofa and shadows drift over his muscular torso. I wish I could memorize this view of him. “No, I’m okay.”
“See you in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
I barely reach the bedroom before a tear slides down my cheek.
I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.
6
Cole
A soft rumbling tries to pull me from sleep. From a dream I’m hanging on to with both hands, because Natalie and I are in the middle of finishing what we started earlier.
Then a crash pops my eyes open, and all my fantasies vanish. “Fuck.”
My watch tells me it’s just after 5:00 a.m. The noise coming from the kitchen tells me Natalie can’t sleep, and the scent tells me she’s baking dangerously delicious things.
Damn. I’ve got a full-blown hard-on that’s dying for some attention. I close my eyes to pull back the sensation of Natalie wanting me. The taste of her kiss, the feel of her skin, the way she moved against me…
I growl and rub the sleep from my eyes before sitting up. I make my way to the kitchen and push through the door that usually stays open.
I pause there and lean my shoulder against the jamb, watching her while she doesn’t know I’m watching. Her movements are slow, full of extra caution to avoid noise. It’s cute and makes me smile. Her hair is down, tucked behind her ears and falling past her shoulders. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts, and it’s deliciously clear her C cups aren’t in a bra. The sight of her long, sexy legs stretching beneath the hem of her shorts reminds me of just how perfect they felt tangled with mine last night.
She’s got flour on her tank, chocolate on her cheek, and she’s talking to herself in a barely-there whisper while she mixes something in a bowl by hand.
This is a ridiculously domestic scene, one I never thought I’d find appealing. But right now, there’s nothing I want more than to watch Natalie doing what she does best.
She stops mixing and dips a plastic spoon in the batter to taste before nodding, then tosses the spoon into the trash and mixes some more.
“Can I get a taste?”
She jumps, and her gaze meets mine. Her tongue slides across her lower lip, and I swear I can still feel my mouth there.
“Shit,” she says, putting the bowl on the counter. “I was trying so hard not to wake you.”
“I know. It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I take in the kitchen with cooling racks covering the counters and table, all the baking ingredients on the small center island. “Stress baking?”
She gives a one-shouldered shrug and finishes mixing whatever’s in the bowl. “My mind was unraveling. If I didn’t start baking, I’d be in a padded cell. And I figured I should do what I can to keep customers happy until I find a better solution.”