Page 62 of The Trouble with Flings

“I didn’t move.” I can practically feel him willing himself, determined to keep his promise.

“You breathed.”

I press my lips together to stifle a laugh, but my body shakes with it.

His arm tightens around me. “Now you’re just taunting me.” He presses a kiss to my temple and says, “I’m being very noble right now. I’d like that on record.”

“Noted. You get a gold star.”

He laughs against my hair. “I’m going to get up before I take us from date number one to makeup sex without the fight.” He presses his lips to my temple, warm and deliberate, and then rolls away and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

I close my eyes, telling myself not to look, because trying to behave is torturous with that gorgeous, charming creature. But when he stands, my gaze follows without my permission.

His boxer briefs hug his unfairly perfect ass. He turns sideways, his sandy hair adorably disheveled, thick scruff shadowing his jaw, and stretches his arms over his head, giving me a clear view of his lean, sculpted muscles and the silhouette of the beautiful beast in his boxer briefs.

He catches me staring and tosses me a coy grin. “See what you do to me?”

“Apparently breathing gets you excited,” I tease.

He plants his hands on the mattress, grinning down at me, and says, “You get me excited. Thinking of you, being near you, sensing you.” He lowers his mouth to mine, kissing me so passionately, desire curls through me. I reach for him, but he pulls just out of reach. “Damn, wild girl. Dating you is going to test every bit of my self-control.” He pushes from the bed. “Give me two minutes, and then the bathroom is all yours.”

As he heads into the bathroom, I stare at the ceiling, grinning like a fool.

When the bathroom door opens, he says, “Get your pretty little ass in there and shower before I break my promise.” He grabs his phone from the nightstand and hikes a thumb toward the living room. “I’ll be out there working very hard on not thinking about you naked. You might want to lock the door.”

He disappears down the hall, and I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow, weighing my options. I could seduce him. Follow him out and peel off my clothes, or shower with the door wide open.

But we said we’d take this slow, and to my genuine surprise, I think I want to. I’d like to see who Fitz is outside of hotel rooms and beautiful beaches. I want to experience the ordinary version of him, like the one who wakes up on a Saturday morning with bedhead and good intentions and tries hard to keep them.

Doing this right is important. I put a hand over my stomach, amazed by how one sonogram has the power to make me think beyond my own wants and needs and explore the scariest path of all.

A little while later, after our solo showers—which I did not enjoy; I wanted his hands on me, so needless to say, my shower took a little longer than usual—I finish drying my hair, and I find Fitz staring into my refrigerator, as if food might magically appear.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says.

“About what?”

“The grocery situation.” He closes the fridge and starts rifling through my cabinets. “Coffee?”

“I’m out.”

He turns, looking delicious in yesterday’s jeans and Henley as he processes this unfathomable information with slanted brows. “You’re out of coffee?”

“You say it like you’ve never run out of coffee before.”

“Can’t say that I have.” He claps his hands together and says, “First stop, your favorite coffee shop. What else is on the agenda besides grocery shopping?”

“Fitz, you don’t have to spend the day running errands with me.”

“No part of me feels like I have to do it. I want to do this,” he says. “So, what’s on our list?”

“That’s really nice of you, but believe me, there’s nothing you’ll want to do.”

“Try me,” he says, stepping closer.

“It’s laundry day,” I relent. “You probably have people who do your laundry for you.”

“Only the dry cleaning.” His arm circles me, drawing me closer. “I actually like doing laundry.”