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I swallow as his eyes focus on me. “Hey, you. I woke up inbed.”
“I put you in it.” His voice is thick with sleep, and it sends tingles down my spine. “You picked theclothes.”
I glance down and realize I’m wearing boxers with Scooby-Doo on them, plus the tank top that was under my jacket earlier. Less the bra, which I’m assuming I wrestled my way out of. “Come on, let’s trade. I’ll take the couch. You take the bed.” He protests, but I reach for his arm, trying to ignore the heat of his skin and the feel of his muscles as I tug on him. “You’reheavy.”
He chuckles. “I’m your density. I mean, yourdestiny.”
“Are you quotingBack to theFuture?”
“I could do it all night, baby,” he mumbles, still halfasleep.
I ignore the way the endearment makes my stomachflop.
It’s the second time he’s said it tonight, and I pretend not tocare.
“You hitting on me again? You’ll have to do better than sweet talk about bottled pizza if you want to get in mypants.”
Wes drops back to the couch. My throat constricts as his gaze locks onmine.
It’s too dark to read his expression, so there’s no excuse for the tingling that starts at my core, spreads between mythighs.
“Come here,” hemurmurs.
I inch forward until my shins bump thecouch.
Wes crooks a finger, and I bend, bringing our faces a few inches apart. His scent, masculine and subtle, hits me like awave.
I swallow themoan.
He’s right that scent isn’t the same ascompatibility.
If it was, my cells would be bridging the distance between us, colliding with his, melting us both into a puddle of atoms and electricity andwanting.
Wes reaches behind my head with both hands, working carefully. The ponytail falls out, and he holds out theelastic.
I slide it on my wrist. “I thought you liked itup.”
“I do. You have no idea howmuch.”
My heart is hammering right now just from sharing the same air ashim.
“Hey,Rena.”
His voice is the only sound in the apartment, but I can make out a door shutting down the hall. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’rehere.”
He says it as if he’s asking aquestion.
Wes is curious. He’s always curious but not like Kendall. It’s as if he’s chronicling the world every second but doesn’t always ask about it. He takes it all in, processes it, turns it out in some elegant version of its formerself.
My throat tightens as I wrap my arms around myself. My fingers dig into my arms as goose bumps rise along my skin. My nipples are probably sticking through my shirt, but I don’tcare.
“In your apartment?” I say at last, meeting hisgaze.
He’s fully awake now, searching my face as if there’s something worth finding here. “In mylife.”
I’ve had crushes, but this isn’t that. It’s a truth that makes my chest tighten and my pulse race anytime he’sclose.
