Page 112 of Property of Bob

I watched him for a few seconds. Then a few more.

This was probably exactly why two adults couldn’t share a bed without it meaning something.

I rolled onto my side, facing away from him. Much better.

I closed my eyes.

The clubhouse was quieter back here. I could barely hear the movie playing from the common room, and every once in a while, someone’s voice carried down the hallway.

I started relaxing. Truth was, I really had been tired.

The mattress moved behind me, and I opened my eyes. Before I could turn around, Bob rolled onto his side, and his arm came around my waist.

I sucked in a breath. Then he pulled me backward, right against him. My whole body went stiff. Bob’s chest pressed against my back. His arm was wrapped around my middle, his hand resting against my stomach, and one of his legs slid against mine as he settled behind me.

Holy shit. I stared at the wall. “Bob?”

Nothing.

“Bob,” I whispered again.

His breathing stayed slow and even.

He was asleep. Completely fucking asleep.

I carefully turned my head enough to see him.

His eyes were closed. The man had grabbed me and pulled me into his arms without even waking up.

I should move. That was the obvious thing to do. He didn’t know what he was doing.

If he woke up and found me plastered against him, there was a very good chance he wouldn’t even remember being the one who put me there.

I put my hand over his where it rested against my stomach.

I was going to move it. That was the plan. Except I didn’t.

His hand was warm beneath mine, and I slowly relaxed back against him.

This was different from waking up touching him this morning. That had been a leg against mine, my hand on his arm.

This was Bob wrapped around me.

I could feel every breath he took. His chest rose against my back and fell again. His beard brushed lightly against the top of my head when he shifted.

I closed my eyes.

I hadn’t come to Skull Island expecting any of this. When things in Iowa got bad enough that I finally admitted I needed help, I’d thought of Ashland Moore.

Except the man holding me wasn’t the eighteen-year-old guy I remembered. He was Bob, and I liked him a hell of a lot more than I’d expected to.

I liked making him laugh. I liked the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. I liked that he’d told me he’d help without needing to know exactly what I’d gotten myself into first.

And God, I really liked being held by him.

Bob’s arm tightened slightly around me in his sleep.

I smiled.