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Alarm spears through my veins, and I freeze, my body stiffening as I take stock.
My hand is on skin. Warm skin covering hard muscle. And so is my thigh.
Oh, my. . . My eyelids snap open, and I stare at a dark, stubbled chin.
“Morning, Katie Bird.” The low voice is gruff but familiar.
I inhale sharply. In a move my brain can barely comprehend, Alex clamps his large hand over my mouth, cutting off my gasp and questions.
“Shh. . . let him sleep,” he whispers, jutting his chin in a look-over-there way.
My brows lift, and I slowly turn my head.
So I didn’t dream the whole evening. Gabriel Rothburn is in bed with me. I’m in bed with my nemesis. And my. . . how do you even describe the bone-deep awareness I have whenever Alex is near?
“So much for keeping our hands to ourselves, hmm?” Alex murmurs, his voice warmer than I’ve ever heard it. He sounds almost amused and not at all put out that I’m draped over him like a sleepy kitten.
Ohmygod, how embarrassing.
I turn back to him, telling my muscles to pull back. But I can’t seem to extract myself.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my lips brushing his palm. A bolt of desire shoots down my spine and takes up residence between my thighs.
His irises flare, and his chest expands beneath my hand.
“I’m not complaining,” he whispers back.
I should roll away. Get off him. Before I do something crazy. Like kiss him. Was I really in his lap last night? Different memories flash through my head like animated GIFs.
The look on their faces as they bid against each other.
The tenderness in Alex’s eyes when he realized I was having a panic attack.
The desperation as he tried to get me away from the photographers. There are a lot of blurry moments, too.
But I distinctly remember telling both of them and all but ordering Gabe to get into the bed with me. And I remember being exhausted. Physically and mentally depleted.
I must have fallen asleep instantly. And I slept amazingly well, so why isn’t my body listening? It’s developed a mind of its own, and that mind loves the feel of Alex Hunt’s arm around my back. The way his fingers are splayed there, too, so possessively. So protective. So warm.
That’s my excuse. He’s warm, and I got cold in the night.
But as I stare into his gorgeous brown depths, I melt against him.
I don’t want an excuse.
He makes it entirely too easy to get lost in the fantasy. His grip on my mouth loosens, and his thumb grazes my cheek softly. We’re locked in a bubble. Intimate. Quiet except for the pitter-patter of rain on the windows and Gabe’s soft snores.
Alex’s eyes ask a question.
How far will you let me go?
I soak in his touch like a greedy sponge.
My imagination runs wild. I can almost feel those blunt fingers trailing down my throat, closing over my breast, branding me with his heat. Teasing my nipples until I gasp and then questing lower. Coasting up and down my thighs until I’m panting for him.
I’ve never panted for anyone.
Yet here I am, in bed with two men. Two men who paid handsomely for a date with me. Two men who eased me through a rough panic attack and protected me from the press.
