Time (Laws of Physics #3)(60)

First, an analysis was needed. Then a diagnosis of the problem. I squeezed and kneaded and inspected, endeavoring to think of words to describe them were I a heroine in a romance novel. Typically, racks were described as something like, Her supple bosom, but never something like, Her jagged tits.

Squeezing one and then the other, I closed my eyes and took a moment to diagnose.

Mona’s malleable mounds.

No. That was just lazy alliteration, not an accurate reflection of my boob-truth.

“What are you doing?”

Tensing, my eyes flew open. I gaped at Abram’s raised eyebrows and the sleepy, confused amber irises beneath.

A small smile curved his mouth and his stare brightened with suspicion. “Are you . . .?”

“I’m doing a breast exam.” My voice was much higher than normal, so I cleared my throat, keeping my face impassive. “Always good to, you know, check out the—uh—good old mammary glands and whatnot.”

His eyes narrowed, his lips somehow pursing but still smiling. “You’re giving yourself a breast exam? Now?”

I nodded, trying on my academic face. “Of a kind, yes.”

Abram seemed to be working harder to subdue his grin. “Okay, okay. That’s cool.” Taking a deep breath, he rolled to his back, pushed down the covers and his pajama pants to his feet, and gripped his morning wood.

I gasped.

I sensed him glance at me but didn’t actually witness his eyes on my face. My attention was otherwise engaged. Watching him. Stroke. Himself. And, you know, panting. (Me. I was panting. The panting came from me.)

“Go on,” his voice said. “Don’t let my penis exam distract you from your breast exam.”

I’d never watched anyone touch themselves before. Big, strong hand, long fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, smoothing down and up, down again in perfect rhythmic strokes, a sexy metronome. It was hypnotic.

Clearing my throat again, and obviously still panting, I nodded, rolling slowly to my back, eyes still fastened to his erection. My shirt bunching at my collarbone, I massaged and caressed Mona’s suddenly sensitive malleable mounds.

I had to stifle a groan as Abram tucked his other hand behind his head, giving me a completely unobstructed view of his torso and chest. So unfair.

“Found anything?” he asked, his voice still deep with sleep and his efforts at last night’s concert.

“No. Not yet,” I panted (yep, still panting), my nipples now tight, hard beads against my palms, my stomach twisting and coiling and heating. “How about you?” I made the mistake of glancing at his face and found his eyes on my hands where I touched myself.

He looked almost angry, his eyes—sharp, feral—were at half-mast, his jaw tight. He licked his lips, his tongue darting out, and I had the most intense desire to shove off my pants and straddle his face.

Why don’t you?

“Nothing yet,” his voice scraped. “But I’m not finished yet.” Then he groaned. “Mona, what are you doing?”

His eyes tracked lower, looking pained, and I followed his line of sight to discover I’d moved one of my hands to my stomach, the tips of my fingers skimming along the waistband of my PJs. My gaze flickered back to his, and I tested a reckless hypothesis, dipping my hand inside my underwear and pushing them down my hips.

Abram’s breath hitched, ragged, unsteady.

“Pelvic exam,” I said, just as I brought my knees up and parted myself with my fingers.

His eyes shot to mine, held, his head shifting forward on his pillow, like he was going to do something. But he didn’t. He stopped himself. He glared at me, reminding me of a tiger behind the bars of a cage, making promises with his eyes. If I weren’t trapped, if I could touch you.

I hoped my stare communicated, Why can’t you? Touch me! I was so hot, wet, ready. I was right there, next to him. Why didn’t he reach out? His lack of action clearly frustrated us both.

Instead, he swallowed thickly, his eyes drifting down again, first to my breasts, and then to where my fingers moved between my spread legs, heated, dazed. His jaw ticked. His breathing grew labored. He blinked. Hard. Like he was having trouble focusing.

And then, suddenly, Abram sat up, stood up, pulled up his pants, and left the room. A second later, I heard the shower come on, and my mouth dropped open.

!

So.

There I was.

In bed.

One hand on my breast, the other between my legs.

Bereft.

Listening to my gorgeous boyfriend take a shower by himself. Probably naked! Unless he wore boxers in the shower as well.

Growling, I also sat up, stood up, but I pulled my pants down. Whipping my shirt off, I marched after him into the bathroom, finding him—AH HA! NAKED—in the glass shower. I stopped short inside the door because his back was to me and his back was very naked, and I’d never seen a naked back like his before, if you don’t count shirtless rugby players in spandex shorts (which I didn’t).

Plus, this was Abram’s back. Not anonymous sporty guy’s back. Therefore, it was a spectacular force. Breathing hard, because I was turned on and angry, I placed my hands on my hips, and whisper-yelled, “Why did you leave?”

Abram turned his head, giving me just his profile, and then shook his head, turning away. “Give me a minute.”

I took a step closer, so he could hear me better, not so I could get a better view of his ass because the shower was steaming up the glass. Not because worry had cut through the lusty fog in my brain and told me things between us were not functioning as per Mona-Abram relationship standards.