Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(58)

Well, he had promised that would happen.

And then we collapsed. I’ve never faulted a man for being deep into the z’s ninety seconds after really good sex, because I do that, too. All that beautiful tension, all that wonderful energy that’s trapped inside and then goes shooting out into the universe . . . it can be tiring.

But when Oscar fell asleep after the second round, I was unable to sleep. This was becoming a problem.

It was too quiet—so quiet you could literally hear a pin drop.

I stayed in bed for a long time, listening to his deep, even breathing as he slept. I wrapped myself around him, seeking the comfort and warmth that often leads to a great night’s sleep. I nestled against his side, throwing a leg over and draping an arm, resting my head on his powerful chest.

Didn’t work.

I tried wrapping him around me, rolling to my side and dragging him with me, forcing the spoon of the century when his deadweight arm fell across me, and I tucked it around me, his powerful hips nuzzled against my bottom, cocooning me in Oscar . . . and reminding me of a position we’d yet to try but that I was dying to. That led to some rather colorful daydreams, but as far as sleep?

Didn’t work.

I kicked a leg out from under the quilt, then an arm, then finally rolled over again and hung my bum over the side—but nothing was working.

Too. Fucking. Quiet!

An hour later and I was propped up in the bed, Oscar snoring away next to me looking adorable and full of restorative z’s, and I was playing solitaire on my phone while catching up on my favorite celebrity Twitter feeds.

An ad popped up for a new game involving sheep counting, and it gave me an idea. I quickly pulled up the app store, typed in sound machine, and there were literally hundreds of white-noise downloads, just waiting for me and Mr. Sandman.

Let’s see, what have we got?

Whispering Meadow? No.

Twilight Sunset? Not.

Rain on Tin Roof? Under the subset of Rain, also including Rain on Umbrella, Rain on Car, Rain on Vinyl Tent. Nope, not a one. But now I had to pee.

After scurrying to the bathroom and back, I quickly dove back under the covers, and finally stumbled upon some appropriate sounds.

Cityscape. Now we’re talking.

You had your Restaurant Sounds, your Before the Theater Begins, Central Park Joggers, and the very intriguing New York City Streets.

I downloaded it, settled back against the pillows, and listened with a satisfied grin as the sounds of cabs honking, doors shutting, trucks rumbling, people chatting, and far-off sirens wailed. I grinned as my city enveloped me in the country, and I finally laid my head gently down to sleep . . .

Until Oscar sat straight up in bed, scrambling for the bat he kept next to his nightstand, and crashed to floor, bat held over his head and ready to do battle.

I peered over the side to where he was just as he peered up over the bed, the two of us knocking skulls and further confusing him.

“What the hell is that!” He rubbed his head, looking wildly around the room. “Is there an ambulance outside? And a . . . is that . . . it sounds like people clinking glasses?”

“It’s New York City Streets—an app?” I answered, sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed, rubbing my own quickly forming goose egg. “You know, background noise for sleeping?”

“Why would anyone need background noise to sleep?” he asked, still holding the bat.

“Stand down, Oscar, it’s okay,” I soothed, tugging him back up onto the bed by his arm. “It’s too quiet; I needed something to listen to, to help me fall asleep.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can anyone sleep through that racket?” He slumped back into bed, the bat hitting the floor. “How can a honking car help you fall asleep?”

“It’s what I’m used to.” I yawned, tucking the covers up and around us, curling into his side. “Just close your eyes, you’ll get used to it in no time.”

“I doubt that,” he huffed, and I could hear his eyes rolling. But he did take a moment to look at the way my naked breasts shone in the moonlight. “So, you’re sleepy, is that it?”

I turned onto my side, facing away from him, and slid the covers down to expose my equally naked backside. “I could be persuaded to stay up a little bit longer, since you’re awake now.”

Five seconds later I felt his hand slide up my thigh, toward my hip, then back down, smoothing it across my skin and along my bottom. Ten seconds later I felt his warm body curving against mine as I arched my back, smiling into my pillow.

The sounds of my sighing and his groaning were mixed in with doors slamming, cabs honking, and glasses clinking.

New York comes to the country.

And in the country . . .



“Tell me about this one.”

“Slipped on a patch of ice one winter, went down on a rock, sliced my arm open.”

“And this one?”

“Gutting a walleye on a fishing trip when I was thirteen—the pocketknife slipped.”

“And I’ve been dying to ask you about this one right here.” I swept my fingertip across his eyebrow, feeling the small white scar there.

Sunday morning at Oscar’s meant lying around in a big old antique iron bed covered in layers of quilts and blankets, feeling the sun shining in through old rattling windows, and playing Connect the Scars on his beautiful, scarred naked body. I’d been playing this game for a while now, and was nowhere near running out of scars.