All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(72)

His suitcase contained very few acceptable clothing options for this momentous occasion. He hadn’t packed pajamas, because he didn’t wear pajamas. A tee and boxer briefs would have to do, because he was not wearing jeans to bed. Not unless she insisted.

The clothing stuck to his damp skin, and he’d much rather be naked, but so be it. Wren’s comfort was worth his discomfort.

One good toothbrushing later, he left the bathroom. From what he could tell, she hadn’t changed position, and her shivering shook the mountain of covers.

“Good news,” she said through all the blankets. “I don’t need to visit that ice hotel in Sweden anymore. Just shine your damn flashlight over the ceiling and call it the aurora borealis, and I’m good to go. Life goal achieved.”

“Seeing the Northern California Lights is truly an experience to be treasured. Congratulations.” Fuck, the room was frigid. “Ready for company?”

She tossed back the blankets and waved him forward impatiently. That was answer enough.

Within three quick strides, he was at the bed. Getting under the covers only took a breath, and then there she was, shaking with cold, lying only an inch away.

If she wanted a personal hot water bottle, he would be one. Gladly.

When he spread his arms, she immediately scrambled into them. Gathering her close, he tucked her head beneath his chin and surrounded her with his body as best he could, and shit, she was soft and plentiful and chilly.

“Put your feet against my legs,” he told her, then bit back a pained gasp when she obeyed. “Hands on my belly or under my arms.”

Apparently she now had icebergs for extremities. Jesus.

Slowly, her hands crept from his cotton-covered back toward his abdomen, and he flipped up the edge of his tee for her. “Skin on skin, Wren. Otherwise, this won’t work.”

He stifled another gasp at the feel of her hands on his bare flesh. How ten points of arctic cold against his goose-bump-prickled stomach could excite him so much mere minutes after his last orgasm, he didn’t know. But they did. She did.

He shifted his hips, just in case, and she snuggled closer.

“Oh, wow. You’re so warm.” All her snappishness had disappeared, and she now sounded … dreamy. “So hard.”

Dammit. He was almost entirely certain he’d shifted far enough, but maybe she had some sort of preternatural erection detection ability?

She went stiff in his arms, and her face against his neck turned noticeably hot. “I mean, muscled. Strong. Not hard.”

He swallowed back a million inappropriate responses, because he wouldn’t scare her. Not even for the sake of a good dirty joke.

Time to change the subject.

“So …” God, what the fuck was he supposed to say now? “What do you think about the consent issues inherent in sex pollen stories?”

At the sound of his own words, and the absolute silence that followed them, he stifled a groan. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t he have come up with something—anything—else? Holding her might feel like inhaling sex pollen with every labored, lust-stricken breath, but he didn’t need to talk about it.

“Sex … pollen.” The words were puffs of warm, moist air against his skin, and he shuddered. Not from cold. “Do I want to know?”

He couldn’t help but snicker. “Probably not. But I’ll send you links to my favorite sex pollen fics anyway. I have a few bookmarked.”

“Oh.” Her fingers curled against his belly. “I, uh, may not need you to send me the links, then.”

When he tried to move far enough away to see her expression, she clung to him like a limpet. “Lauren Chandra Clegg, have you been looking at my bookmarked fics?”

Her entire body seemed to radiate fresh heat, and she didn’t need to answer out loud.

“You have,” he crowed. “You’ve read about pegging and consentacles and—”

As she’d done once before, she plastered her hand over his mouth, and she really should have remembered his previous response. This go-round, he licked her palm more slowly, swirling his tongue along the way. An enticement, not the trick of a naughty friend.

She didn’t move her hand.

Her eyelashes fluttered against his neck, and her thighs shifted. Parted, if only an inch.

She stretched a little. Resettled herself tighter against him with a low hum. Her nipples suddenly made themselves evident against his chest.

Well, then.

He twisted his neck, scraping his beard against her fingers, butting her hand like a cat in need of petting. In a halting movement, she stroked his jaw. His cheek. Smoothed her thumb over his eyebrows.

Her breathing had become more rapid. His too.

No part of her felt cold anymore, and fuck knew he was on fire.

When she slowly traced his lips with her forefinger, he opened his mouth and took it inside. Sucked. Held the pad of her finger carefully between his teeth.

She—

Shit. She moaned.

He trembled. Then nudged his knee lightly, so lightly, against the seam of her legs. It was the lower-body equivalent of his open arms. Not a demand, but an invitation.

Then she was straddling his thigh, her fingers digging deliciously into his back, the heat of her sex scorching through her thin leggings, and the sound she made as she pressed against him, squirming, set him alight. He slid his hands down her back slowly, waiting for her to protest. Waiting for her to stop him.