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She lay on her side, both her hands tucked under her cheek. Her dark lashes so long that they rested against the tender skin under her eyes.
Skin with a little dark tint, a sign she hadn’t gotten enough rest. How long had she been … here? How long had she been a hand’s reach from him, sharing his bed and even his pillow? He resented sleeping, feeling the time wasted, when he could have been watching her.
She lay so close he could feel her breath, a light tickle, on his neck. A strand of dark hair rested against her cheek. He longed to reach out and brush it away. Touching her hair was one of the things she didn’t balk about. Or at least not too much.
Little did she know how much he loved touching it. Not that there weren’t other parts he longed to touch. Still, the dark strands were soft, a lot softer than his hair, and always smelled like … like a girl’s hair should smell. A cross between a fruit and a flower.
He fought the need to run his fingers through the long dark strands, knowing that when she woke up this closeness would end. She’d pull back.
Della always pulled back. He just kept telling himself that the day would come when she wouldn’t. When touching her wouldn’t be risky. When she would touch him back.
He studied her lips—so pink, with the perfect shape. He wanted to press his mouth against hers. To taste her. He wanted … His gaze lowered to the scoop of her tank top, where the soft swells of flesh pressed against the cotton fabric. He recalled how she’d looked in just her panties and bra when he’d gone to her cabin the other night.
For that matter, he’d seen her naked when she’d been sick, in the beginning of her second turn. Mentally, he’d tattooed that vision to his mind, where he visited it often.
What he wouldn’t give to take her clothes off—every stitch of material—then to remove his own and feel her against him, skin to skin.
