Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(54)

Yeah, see? I can be a good guy when I want to. Thoughtful. Nice. So why in the hell is Chelsea so mad at me? What did I do?

You said you were just friends.

Big f**king deal. Chicks can be so sensitive.

After I pay for the supplies, I head back up to our room, dread making my footsteps feel heavy despite my still blissfully blank mind. I should just confront her. Demand to know why what I said in some offhand way was enough to flip her mood like a switch from totally on to completely off. I stand outside the door, staring at the card key clasped in my fingers, zoning out so hard I nearly fall against the door.

Fuck. Whatever was in that joint was some extra-good shit. Maybe it would be best if I didn’t confront her. I might say something infinitely awful.

I open the door after about the fifth try and stride inside, setting the gift shop bag on the bathroom counter. I notice that it’s still warm and steamy from Chelsea’s shower and the faint scent of lemon lingers in the air.

My imagination runs wild. A naked Chelsea beneath the water, her skin all slick and wet and tempting me to touch her.

Yeah. Fuck. That sounds just about perfect. Wish I’d come back sooner. Maybe I could have found her like that.

Instead I find Chelsea lying in the middle of the bed on her side wearing a thick white robe, her legs tucked up, her body curled into a ball. Her long, wet hair is spread out on the pillow, her eyes are closed, and her rosebud lips are parted in sleep.

I stumble against the wall and brace my hand against it, my heart thumping about a million miles a second. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and beautiful and sexy as hell, makes me wanna do something crazy. Like grab her, undo the belt, and spread the robe wide open. Feast my gaze on her skin and pray she begs me to f**k her.

No, dude, you can’t f**k her. Not like this. You’re high. She’s a virgin. You can’t be high her first time.

The longer I stare at her, the more my entire body tightens, my c**k twitches, and … f*ck.

I want her despite my altered state. I always want her.

Fuck it. I’m taking a shower and I’ll jerk off to thoughts of her. How she tastes, the sweet, hot sounds she makes when I kiss her, when I let my hands wander all over her body, never lingering too long. I’m patient with Chelsea. Always, always patient.

For once, I’m dying to linger. Dying to get her naked and have her writhing beneath my hands. I want to be the one to slide deep inside her body, staring into her eyes when I enter her the first time. Have that connection with a girl that I’ve never really had before.

Closing the bathroom door, I strip out of my wet clothes and get in the shower, letting the hot, pulsating water wash over me, cleanse my chilled skin and my dirty thoughts. My c**k is so damn hard it hurts and I wrap my fingers around it, grip it tight, slowly stroke. Close my eyes and think of Chelsea.

But I don’t want to waste it. She’s out there. Sleeping in the bed we have no choice but to share. Why should I beat off when I could wake her up with soft, sweet kisses and whisper I’m sorry in her ear? Slip my hands beneath that thick robe and hope like hell I encounter bare, soft skin. Because I bet she is soft and bare beneath that robe.

And I’m suddenly eager to find out if it’s true.

Turning the water off, I dry my body like I’m in a race with myself, slipping my black boxer briefs back on but nothing else. It’s not like I can just walk back out there naked. She’d probably freak the hell out if she found me like that.

I gotta take it slow with Chelsea. That’s been my mantra ever since I met her. Slow, slow, slow.

So different from the guy who’s always wanted it fast, fast, fast and now, now, now.

The heat of the shower and the steam-filled bathroom and smoking the joint earlier has left me dizzy. I stumble out of the bathroom and flick off the light, make sure the deadbolt is locked on the door, and then I approach the bed, where Chelsea is still sleeping smack in the middle. I flick off the lamp on the bedside table and tug back the covers, sliding beneath them, lying practically on the edge since Chelsea is pretty much hogging the entire mattress.

She doesn’t even move when I get into bed with her, and I realize she’s a damn heavy sleeper. Sweet and so innocent-looking, she’s facing me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. I lie there in the darkness, listening to her breathe, drinking in her features that are awash with the faint light that’s shining from the crack in the otherwise drawn heavy curtains.

Reaching out, I touch her damp hair, slide a few strands between my fingers. She smells f**king amazing and I scoot closer, sharing the same pillow, desperately wanting to lean in and press my mouth to hers.

But I hold back. Not yet. Despite my f**ked-up, high-as-hell state, I know I can’t just barge in and make this happen. This is going to be subtle.

That last thought alone makes me laugh. Hell, I am high.

Chelsea stirs, a little sigh escaping her, and the sexy sound goes straight to my dick, making me even harder. And there’s no way I can hide it, either. I’m in my underwear and everything is pretty much on display there. Hope boners don’t scare her.

I laugh again because damn it, that shit is funny. Her eyelids flutter open and my breath stalls in my throat.

Damn it. I didn’t mean to wake her up.

“Owen.” She stretches, her arm brushing against me, and my c**k stirs. Damn, she barely touches me and I’m ready to fire one off. “When did you come back?”