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I know where this will head, in the darkness, escalating the way it is, our bodies moving against each other in the first throes of foreplay. I know I won’t have the strength to say no or stop it. He is causing cravings I have never experienced, a low, deep, throbbing heat, and the desire to have him satisfy my hunger. His kiss is too addictive to want to stop. I instinctively know these urges are a longing to have sex, something I’ve never felt before, something so new and so overpowering. The apex of my thighs hard against him is almost on fire, and waves of desire pulse up to my stomach.
He rubs against me, breathing heavily, his kiss becoming urgent, shifting the gear from erotic passion into burning lust. Our tongues are caressing one another in an intense motion; he knows how to seduce my mouth in ways that have me gasping for more, his exquisite taste. It’s like we just know instinctively how to come together and kiss each other. A perfect fit. He’s the first man I have ever wanted to do this to me, and he lets me lose myself in him. My first French kiss ever; it’s beyond heavenly. I moan out softly, lost in this. My hands are in his hair and nails raking down the back of his neck and over his shoulders, feeling him out.
Every alarm bell in my brain starts going crazy, deafening me as the realization dawns on me, and the lust-fueled haze subsides a little. I’m on the verge of complete surrender or complete panic, my body ready to self-combust, starting to come to terms with what I am doing when he just stops. With an instant halt to all of it, he pulls away.
He moves back off me, rolling to his side, resting his face against me, his body relaxing fully. He mumbles something incoherent and returns to deep heavy breathing while I pause and wait, scared to move or breathe, and realize he has been asleep this whole time. I’m lying here panting and heaving, and he’s just, well, he’s sleeping! I gawp and stare at his profile in disbelief.
It wasn’t real!
He’s dreaming and acting out in his slumber, sleepwalking somehow. I’m confused, disappointed, but also relieved, and yet conflicted. He’ll never know what we did; he’ll have no memory of it. I’m not sure if I want this or not. I have no clue what I’m doing or even thinking.
I think about kissing him again, trying to rouse him properly,
but don’t. Instead, I slide free and get out of bed, aware of how close I was to screwing everything up with him. Despite being utterly captive to how kissing him felt, it’s as though I’ve broken some line of trust, that I’ve abused him in his sleep, and it makes me feel disgusting, no better than my mother’s perverted lovers and what they did to me. I climb out of bed and get up quickly in a rush to put distance between us and cool my overheated senses.
I wander into the living room, shaking and unsure what to feel. I’m angry and so confused.
Why would I kiss him like that? It’s Jake! I have no excuse. I wasn’t drunk; I wasn’t half asleep. Maybe it was the shock? But that kiss … Oh, my god … that kiss!
It must be the shock of everything from yesterday: the episode with my mother, then with Vanquis, and now here is Jake, my savior, my protector, the hunk of the Carrero empire. He is gorgeous in every way, and, despite my issues with my past, I am still capable of being turned on. By him anyway. I am a woman, after all! I can see why my body would respond to him that way. And that kiss is something no woman could deny.
I shouldn’t have touched him that way. I crossed the line, and I’m glad he never woke up to realize what we were doing.
I could forget it ever happened if my brain would stop turning it repeatedly in my mind. I can still feel his mouth on mine, his taste, and how his tongue slid against mine, urging my body to tingle and sizzle. I can’t shake it.
The feel of his muscular body caging me in, pressing down on me …
Stop it!
My skin is still tingling from head to toe. 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 need right now instead of obsessing over the highly erotic episode a few minutes ago.
“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 runoff,” 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 confusing 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 his 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 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 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 calm 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 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. “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.
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