CHAPTER73
I could forget it ever happened if my brain would stop turning it over and over in my mind. I can still feel his mouth on mine, the taste of him, the way his tongue slid against mine, urging my body to tingle and sizzle. I can’t shake it.
The feel of his strong body caging me in, pressing down on me …
Stop it!
I shiver and reach for the throw on the couch, wrapping myself in it; I stand by the window, looking out over dark Chicago, trying to distract myself. The rough, down-trodden area looks worse by moonlight, and I’m counting the hours until I get out of here. It’s a distraction anyway, something I so need right now, instead of obsessing over the highly erotic episode a few minutes ago. My skin is still tingling from head to toe.
“Hey,” Jake’s husky voice startles me and I turn quickly, my face flushing with heat and shame. Embarrassment oozing from every pore, I wonder if there’s a possibility he did know what we were doing, after all, since he’s awake so soon. “I woke up in a bed alone. Thought you’d run off,” he says, smiling lazily, still looking sleepy with messed-up hair and in his T-shirt and jeans. He’s the poster boy for ultimate sexiness, and I swallow the urge to groan with horniness.
Crap. Don’t go there.
“Hey,” I respond quickly, looking back to the window, unable to make eye contact with him while the memory of his mouth is still on mine, my body going insane with a thousand confused sensations and on high alert at his nearness.
“I’ll call the airfield in a bit. You want to go see your mom before we leave?” He yawns, and I catch him from the corner of my eye stretching out, elongating his body, and showing off naked midriff with the motion. I inwardly tense. Sculpted abdominal muscles, memories of his body pressed on top of mine, the way I reacted to him, the heat in my body refuses to simmer down with so much of him on show right now, and I curse my own weakness.
“No, I don’t need to see her. She’s fine; her injuries are minor,” I retort quickly, flippantly, the tension in my voice giving away my emotion, but he doesn’t pick up on it, or if he does, he ignores it. He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders while casually resting his chin on my head, like he has no clue. He’s acting as though nothing has happened, and I tense up inside even more. I shrug out of his arms, unable to control the longings I’m feeling. Letting the throw slide off onto the floor at his feet, I duck toward the kitchen and catch sight of him frowning at me.
“Something wrong?” he asks while studying my face. I put my head down and head into the kitchen, switching on the kettle, avoiding him. Knowing I’m probably blushing like mad, I will my burning face to cool down.
“No,” I answer, overly bright, and focus on getting the mugs ready.
“You’re acting weird, shorty. What gives?” He’s frowning. Noticing it from the corner of my eye, I carry on with what I’m doing; the blood has rushed to my face even more so now, and I am mildly freaking out.
“I’m just making coffee,” I say with a shrug, trying to appear normal.
Jesus, Jake, leave me be. Stay back.
“Look at me then,” he commands. I tense and glance up while pasting a fake smile on my lips. Raising my eyebrows before returning to what I’m doing, I feel the heat radiating all over me and quickly look at anything but him, but that is so hard to do in a space this small.
“Okay, what did I do?” He crosses his arms menacingly, his biceps bulging, the stubborn Carrero look plastered all over him. I think I may faint.
“Nothing,” I laugh nervously, then drop the spoon and spill coffee granules everywhere with fumbling hands.
Shit.
“Spill, Anderson. I’ll torture it out of you; you know I will.” He walks toward me with a look that means business, and I cave weakly. If I let him get too close, I may self-combust. I may actually pass out right in front of him.
I need to calm my hormones down.
“We kissed,” I squeak as he gets dangerously close to touching me. Then I hide behind my loose hair as shame envelopes me tenfold. I can’t tell him that I practically molested him in his sleep, that we were dry humping, and I know what he feels like turned on and pushed up against me.
“I’ve been known to do more than kiss in my sleep,” he laughs, with no hint of shock at all. “They call it ‘sexsomnia’. It happens very rarely. It’s like a form of sleepwalking.” He shrugs it off, obviously in acceptance of this quirk of his."
