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“Good?” he asked as he took his seat on the sofa, having balanced his plate on his forearm while he carried two glasses of iced tea for us to the coffee table.
“Mmhmm.” I licked my lip and glanced up to find him staring at my mouth.
When I expected him to quickly look away like he usually did, he didn’t. He didnotlook away. Rather, he remained still and focused, that wicked smile returning with a vengeance. Like he had every right to look at mouth like that.
What was happening right now?
I was nervous and excited and suddenly very horny.
“Finish eating,” he ordered. “Then we’ll watch the show.”
Clearing my throat, I said, “Okay.” Because what else was I supposed to do besides woodenly do what he said? Something was different.
We ate in silence, and I couldn’t even look at him. But I sure as hell felt him staring at me. Strangely, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thrilling and scary at the same time.
When I was finished, I wiped my hands on the napkin and drank the rest of my iced tea. When I started to get up to take his plate, he said, “I’ve got it.”
I wasn’t going to argue. He took our plates and glasses and returned to the kitchen. I settled back against the sofa. I grabbed the fleece throw folded on the end and spread it out over my lap.
When he returned, he paused, standing above the sofa, taking in my stance in the corner of the sofa.
“What?” I asked, that fluttery sensation returning ten-fold.
“Nah, we’re not going to watch like that this afternoon.”
“Huh?”
I was a brilliant conversationalist post-drinking.
He lifted the blanket and held out his hand. I put my hand in his and let him lift me out of my seat. Then he laid back down, stretching his body along the length of the sofa and pulled me down.
“Lay in front of me.”
“What?” I blinked, confused.
“You heard me. Lay down in front of me, Anna.”
“Um. Okay.”
Again, brilliant verbiage coming out of my mouth because what thehellwas going on?
I lay down, nervous and trying not to crowd him. But he only tucked me closer, his hand at my stomach pulling me back till he was perfectly spooning me. Then he flicked the fleece blanket over us with one hand.
“Comfortable?” he asked in a deep rumble close to my ear.
I couldn’t refrain from shivering at the intimacy.
“Yes,” I answered honestly, because what else was I supposed to do?
I was snuggled up on the sofa with Reed’s giant body aligned behind every inch of mine, cocooned beneath a toasty blanket and toasty man. His arm was wrapped around my waist, keeping me pressed against him, his fingers curling beneath my opposite hip pressed into the sofa.
“Get the remote and turn it on,” he murmured. “I’m not moving. This is perfect.”
Pulse racing wildly, I reached out and picked up the remote then turned onThe Witcher. But my mind—for once—was not on Henry Cavill while watching it. It was one-hundred percent on the delicious man glued to my body from behind.
My head resting on his bicep, my hands folded under my chin, my vagina wondered how we’d passed out last night and woken up in heaven.
I tried to focus on the show, but it was simply impossible. And that was before he nuzzled my wet hair to the side and started kissing the underside of my jaw. Gasping, I didn’t move, hoping this wasn’t a dream. I’d had fantasies of something like this happening.
