If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(16)

“Robe’s on, crankapotamus.”

I hear the thud of his air cast boot across my parquet floors, then the curtain whips back. He stares at me, and his jaw clenches. I tug my robe tighter. Suddenly the soft white waffle cotton that comes halfway down my thighs feels like a deeply insufficient amount of material.

Brushing by me, Sebastian yanks open my dresser drawers, riffling through them. “No. No. No. Jesus, woman, do you own anything that isn’t ninety-five percent Lycra?”

“You’re real funny, Gauthier.”

“I’m supposed to find something edgy that you can wear from this selection? It’s like asking Monet to paint with peanut butter.”

I bite my lip so I won’t laugh. That was kind of funny.

“Ah-hah.” Sebastian yanks out a black double-strap, low-impact sports bra that I wear for yoga and tosses it onto my bed.

He digs around the same drawer some more, until he finds a white racerback tank top that I sleep in, so soft and worn, it’s semi-sheer now. “That,” he mutters. “And…”

Shooing me back, he drops onto the edge of my bed so he can reach the lower drawers and riffle through them, too. He finds a pair of faded jeans—the only pair I’ve ever owned and actually liked the feel of—that I sadly had to give up after my last growth spurt. They still fit my hips, though they’re more form fitting than they originally were, but they’re too short now, an odd length that aggravates my ankles.

Holding up the jeans, he inspects them. “These.”

“They feel weird.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Then why are they in your drawer?”

“Because they’re nostalgic.”

“Nostalgic. What the hell is there to be nostalgic about when it comes to jeans?”

“Just give me those.” I try to yank them from him, but Sebastian yanks back, sending me tumbling onto him, both of us collapsing onto my bed.

I stare down at him, wide-eyed, frozen. My legs straddle his hips. My pelvis presses right into his.

Sebastian is very…hard. Everywhere. I feel lean muscle. The bones in his hips. I didn’t pay close attention to his body when I was on his balcony because, well, I was trying very hard not to, but now I can’t help but feel proof that he’s clearly thinner than he typically is, not leaned up in the healthy way like Ren gets when they ramp up conditioning before the season. The harmful kind. The I-drink-and-don’t-eat kind.

It’s like the moment I saw the smudges under his eyes, saw his hair sticking up funny before he smoothed it back. I feel how human he is. And I feel this inexplicable urge to hug him. To drag him to Mom and Dad’s and shove a massive plate of Swedish comfort food in front of him.

“Ziggy.” His voice is tight as he pulls his hips back. Thanks to gravity, mine follow suit, shifting in tandem with his. It’s how I’d move if I were on top for a wholly different reason, if there was nothing between us, a lazy, long roll of my hips. Unfortunately, because I have only panties on—this pair’s actually comfortable—I feel much more than I’d like, the thick length of him, tucked inside his jeans, rubbing right against me.

I scramble off frantically, nearly falling on my butt. “Sorry. I… Sorry.” I clear my throat.

Seb eases upright on the bed, still holding my jeans. Then he stands, his gaze pinned on mine. With how small my “bedroom” area is, we’re left standing nearly chest to chest.

He blows out a slow breath and stares down at my jeans in his hands. “Why do they feel weird?”

I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to give someone who’s so far proven entirely unworthy of my trust this confession about my sensory needs.

But something about his expression as he peers up beneath those thick dark lashes makes the words melt out of me and spill into the air. “They itch my ankles. They used to fit, but then I had a growth spurt, right before college, and now they’re too short. But they just felt so good. They’re the only jeans that have ever felt good.”

He studies my face, quiet, shifting my jeans in his hands. Then he glances down, again, examining the interior, the seams, the label stamped on the fabric. “And if they were shorts?”

I frown. “Shorts?”

“It is eighty degrees outside, Sigrid. It’s this season right now called summer, heard of it?”

“Says the man wearing pants.” I poke his armpit, a classic tickle spot that seems to work, because he swears and twists away.

“Easy does it, Sporty Spice.”

For that little moniker, I go for his other armpit, but this time he catches my hand, clasping it hard. I stare up at him, heart pounding in my chest. His thumb, it’s sliding along the inside of my palm, in steady, lulling circles. Circles I’d enjoy very much, elsewhere on my body. My nipples tighten. Heat spills, low in my belly, and settles into a soft, pulsing ache.

I knew I was in over my head with him. Sucking in a deep breath, I press my thighs together and will that ache away.

“How would you make them shorts?” I’m wildly proud of how steady my voice comes out.

Sebastian lifts an eyebrow. “Got a pair of scissors?”

I pull my hand away, and this time he lets go. I take my sweet time finding the scissors in my kitchen drawer to cool myself down, then offer them to him, handles first. Sebastian lays the scissors on the counter, then steps closer to me.