Wherever It Leads(75)

So delectable.

My fingers itch to trace the muscles on his abs, to feel the solidness of his chest under my palms. I start towards him and his eyes flutter open.

“Hey, there,” he grins, pulling back the blankets. “Get in here.”

I can’t help the excitement that flitters in my chest as I climb into his bed. He grabs me, drawing me across the mattress and into his arms. I snuggle into him, breathing him in.

“Mmm,” he whispers. “I like seeing you in my t-shirt.”

“I hope you don’t care. I didn’t plan on coming here tonight, so I didn’t bring anything.”

“Of course I don’t care. I love it. But you could’ve been naked and I wouldn’t have objected.”

I can hear his heart pound in his chest. I know mine is doing the same thing. We’ve taken a step towards wherever we end up and I have a million questions, but I’m afraid to ask. Instead, I let my fingers trace the ridges of his arm, the thick veins that wrap the muscled limbs.

“How do ya feel?” Fenton asks.

“Great. Tired. Happy. You?”

“The same. Strangely.”

“Strangely?”

“This wasn’t really on my to-do list,” he laughs.

“What wasn’t on your to-do list?”

“Finding a phone in a bunch of bananas and becoming hooked by its owner.”

“Hooked, huh?” I laugh.

“Pretty much.”

I pull back far enough to see in his eyes. “It wasn’t in mine either, you know. You are supposed to be my rebound.”

“You had a fatal flaw in your line of thinking,” he grins.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“A rebound means to bounce back after hitting something.”

“Yeah . . .”

“There was no way I’d have been able to let you just go back. You’re stuck with me for a while.”

He pauses, waits for me to respond, but I’m stuck in a limbo of words. I want to cheer, to smile, to do a little shimmy under the covers—maybe roll over on top of him for another round. But that seems a little overboard, especially when I’m not even sure what he does mean, exactly.

“So you’re my . . . bounce?” I ask.

“I’ll be . . . your dribble—taking you forward with the touch of my hand.”

“You’re so stupid,” I laugh, rolling onto my back.

He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me. His lips twitch in amusement. “Stupid, huh? Boy, you know how to make a man feel good about himself.”

“Like you need any lifting up.”

“You think I have an ego?”

“Not a crazy one. But how could a man like you not know you’re . . .”

I let my words drift away. There are no words that could complete that sentence, not the right way. It would be too much or not enough, or God forbid, stupid. My cheeks heat as I realize I shouldn’t have started this because the look on his face tells me he’s not going to let it go.

“I’m not what?” he prompts.

“A complete * for putting me on the spot,” I laugh.

“You put it out there. I just want to hear what you think.”

What I think is that he’s the ultimate male. That he could’ve hung the moon if he wanted to. That he is quite possibly a piece of perfection with every bit of an eight-inch, thick cock. But I can’t say that.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” I say instead. “Sexy. Intelligent. I think . . . you’re kind. Compassionate. And . . . maybe a little ruthless about what you want. But honestly, I kinda like it.”

I feather my fingertips over his lips. Pressing them together, he plants a kiss on my fingers.

“How could you not know you’re all those things?” I ask.

He peers into my eyes, his gaze so intense I feel like he’s seeing my bared soul. It’s humbling and nerve-wracking, but I can’t cover it up from him. I don’t want to. I want him to see me for what I am, to not ever feel like I have to hide from him. If wherever we’re going is going to work, I don’t want it to end up like my relationship with Grant.

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he asks one of me. “You want to hear what I think about you?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“I think you are strong. Smart. Capable. You hide your vulnerabilities and fears behind your strength. You’re easily shaken, but don’t let it show because showing that would equate to weakness in your mind. You’re the only person I can be around for longer than two hours and not want to slice my wrists.”

“That’s good,” I laugh, a nervous crease in my voice.

“It’s very good,” he grins.

“So, this thing between us now. What does it mean, exactly?”

His features darken, his bottom lip pulling between his teeth. He runs a hand along the curve of my hip, gliding it over my abs, and holds on to my other side. His palm is warm, a little rough, as it splays against my skin.

“It means whatever you want it to mean,” he says, his voice low. When I don’t respond, he continues. “I’ll tell you what it means to me. You make me feel a way that I’ve never felt before. You energize me, inspire me.