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Ididn’t know that freckles could transform a bad-boy hard-ass guy like me into mush.
Literal mush.
The sun was already on full blast, with yellow light slanting into the bedroom. My eyes cracked open and Ciaran’s freckles came into laser focus. They swept across his nose and cheeks, and they fascinated me to no end. I couldn’t explain it.
He was facing me, still asleep, when I started counting them. Last night we’d all but passed out with me spooning him, but at some point, he’d shifted. Our legs were tangled together, and his hand was lazily hooked at my hip, pulling me toward him. Even in his sleep he was possessive.
That made me smile.
Our commingled heat brought about memories of last night, of my tongue on him, making him writhe and sob with pleading agony. My cock balls-deep in his ass, Ciaran screaming my name as he climaxed. I got hard just thinking about it.
Not that it was difficult to get a stiffy in the mornings. It was almost a given. But with Ciaran in my bed? Yeah, I was already as hard as granite.
Last night was easily the best encounter of my life.
And the most meaningful.
Ciaran stretched and yawned like a cat waking up from a delightful dream. I watched it all unfold without moving, breathing, because I didn’t want to lose count.
When Ciaran aimed that sleepy smile my way, my heart fluttered at the baby blues peering back at me.
Yeah, I was so far gone it wasn’t even funny.
“Morning,” he croaked before rolling onto his back to stretch out.
“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath, which was, of course, the wrong reaction here. Ciaran’s sleep-induced smile was brilliant enough to inspire a Top 40 single.
Ciaran didn’t seem to take offense. He turned back to me and pushed a lock of hair out of his face. Chuckling, he asked, “Not a morning person?”
“No, I am,” I said. “Good morning.” I brushed my lips against his. If I let it become anything more than a brief good morning kiss, we’d never leave the bed. We had a five-hour drive ahead of us. “But you made me lose count.”
“Lose count?” He scrunched his nose in confusion. The freckles scrunched, too. He was fucking adorable. He needed to stop doing that.
“Of your freckles. I was up to twenty-four. Then you moved and I lost my place.”
Ciaran hid his face in the pillow and groaned. “I hate my freckles.” He popped one eye open to judge my reaction. “They make me look childish.”
“Childish?” I lifted the blanket to reveal my erection. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“That’s just morning wood,” Ciaran said, without actually looking down at the evidence.
Was he embarrassed? Did he regret last night? My stomach churned.
“Morning wood on freckle-steroids,” I clarified, swallowing hard.
He snorted. “Freckles are not arousing.”
“On you they are.”
“Weirdo.” He shoved at me playfully, though I didn’t miss his pleased-as-peaches blush.
Okay, so maybe he didn’t regret last night. Still, I should make sure.
I propped up on an elbow. My eyes locked on the super-prominent hickeys. His neck was roughed up, too, red with beard burn. I scrubbed my jaw. It was scratchy with two days’ growth.
My boy looked good and fucked.
It’d be so obvious what we got up to the second Joan and Filipe saw us.
