I have to see him. I twist my head around, wanting to add a memory of Oliver all drowsy with sleep, unshaven and disheveled. It’s like a secret, and I’m the only one who knows.
My breath catches in my lungs as I devour the sight. I run my hand along his jaw. The stubble highlights the harsh edges of his face, yet he’s somehow softer this way—less severe, more real.
His free hand skates up my side, covers my breast, and gently toys with me through the thin layer of cotton, and all my thoughts flee like birds startled out of a bush. My heart pounds in my ears, impossibly loud. The thumping seems to be in surround sound, echoing through my body and banging on the front door.
Wait. Front door?
“Hey, Oliver, you awake? Finley made breakfa—oh God!” Over the banister separating the loft from the living area below, Jake’s face comes into view, twisted into an expression of pure horror.
He bolts back outside, the door slamming shut behind him.
I roll over and hide my face into Oliver’s chest, embarrassed laughter breaking out of me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his hand rubbing circles on my back.
I pull back and look at him. His eyes are dark with concern.
“I’m fine. I just had to be the one facing the door so he got a good view of you feeling me up.” I laugh again, harder, ducking my head into him.
His chest shakes underneath my cheek, and I lift my gaze. He’s smiling. No. It’s more. He’s laughing.
I blink at him. It’s a rusty, almost noiseless laugh, hardly even a chuckle, but it’s there, and it’s true.
“I’ve never heard you laugh.” I rest the tips of my fingers against the soft skin of his mouth.
The curve in his lips falters, dipping slightly. I remove my hand and then sweep my mouth across his, a quick, involuntary movement. His fingers brush my cheek, his eyes searching mine, and his expression defaults to its normal serious mien.
“We should probably go up for breakfast. We need to get on the road,” I say.
“Right.” He watches me, his eyes dark and hot. His hair is askew, and stubble shades his jaw.
I don’t want to move. I want to take in this rumpled version of Oliver for at least a few more hours.
He releases me, rolls away, and spins to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, his back facing me—and what a back it is, corded with smooth muscles.
His hands clench the comforter. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’ll never leave this loft.”
I press my lips together, holding in my laughter. “How do you know I’m looking?”
“I can feel it.” His back muscles tense.
I bite my lip to contain the groan wanting to erupt. “So you’re threatening me with a good time?”
He twists around, reaching for me.
With a laugh I skitter away and head for the stairs. “Later!” I call.