Page 81 of Beneath Your Beautiful

Killian slipped under the sheets, flicked off the lamp, and pulled my back against his chest. He bent his knees, bringing mine with them, and I snuggled into the curve of his body. His hand found mine and he laced our fingers together. This was how we fell asleep every night. We didn’t wake up this way. Killian slept on his stomach, his arms wrapped around the pillow. I usually woke up on my side, arm under my pillow, facing him. But this was how we fell asleep and I loved it.

“Goodnight, baby.”

“Goodnight, Killian.” I had barely gotten the words out before I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my lips.

I was woken the next morning by a tongue swirling around my nipple. Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the shower together, a cloud of steam billowing behind us.

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Jared’s tattoo shop, an iced coffee in my hand. I’d braided my wet hair and bravely donned white shorts and a light blue T-shirt because I had a laundry issue, as in I needed to cart all my dirty clothes to the laundromat. Which, sadly, I planned to do tonight, on my night off.

“We’ll pick it up now,” Killian said, when I mentioned it.

“Why?”

“I’ll take it to my house.”

“Why?” I asked, still not cluing in.

“I have a washer and dryer. I’ll throw your stuff in while I make lunch.”

“You can’t do my laundry, make my lunch, run the bar, drive me all over town and—” I was still protesting when he stopped in front of my apartment building.

“Go. You’re burning daylight.”

“Burning daylight?”

He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“Exactly my point,” I said, not making a move to leave. “You don’t have time to do all this other stuff. I’ll buy lunch at the deli today. And if you let me hang out at your apartment tonight, I’ll do my own laundry and I’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”

He perked up at that suggestion. “Naked?”

“Maybe.”

“Naked,” he repeated.

“Okay. Fine.” Although I had no intention of sitting around his house naked. “I’ll cook dinner too. We can eat at two in the morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But you’ll have to eat whatever I cook.”

He grinned. “Deal.” He leaned across me and pushed open my door. “Get your laundry.”

Chapter Thirty

Killian

Connor was home. He came to the bar this afternoon, showing up at the door as if he’d never been away.

“Where in the hell have you been?” I roared when I opened the door and saw him standing on the other side, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, with a fucking suntan. A suntan? Had he been lying around on a beach all this time?

“Miami.”

“Miami,” I repeated, looking into his eyes. They were clear. Focused. He looked good, like he’d put on some weight and muscle. “How did you get there and back?”

“Greyhound.”

What the fuck? His Harley was still parked in the backyard, covered with a tarp. But his mode of transportation was the least of my concerns. “They don’t have phones in Miami?” I inspected his arms for fresh track marks. There weren’t any.