Page 23

My hands are still on his thighs and for a second, I think about how easy it would be to slide them up just a little bit further. To tuck my fingers into the waistband of his gray sweatpants and pull them down just so I could see where the happy trail of hair ends…

“It feels unfair that you’re always the one being strong for me. After my injury and now all of this? What if you end up resenting me?”

Luke’s questions break through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts, and it feels like a good time to take my hands off of him.

Releasing his thighs, I sit back on my feet, but not before reaching up to ruffle the messy pop of dark brown hair on top of his head.

It’s so soft and silky, such a stark contrast to the scratchy feel of his beard against my lips this morning and yet somehow just as delicious and intoxicating.

F uck. I think to myself as I pull away. I need to keep my hands to myself.

Easier said than done.

Man, life was so simple back when Luke was just my hot friend. Now that he’s my hot husband, I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop myself from wanting him.

I don’t know that I really want to try that hard.

“I could never resent you, Luke. You’re my best friend, remember?

And now that we’re married, we’re partners in life.

I’ll always be here to hold you up when you can’t do it yourself, and when I need support, I know you’ll be there for me, too.

Now,” I clear my throat as I push myself up to my feet.

“It’s been a long day, and I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to a few hours of shut-eye before Ollie wakes up demanding a diaper change and a cuddle. ”

“Mmm, yes. Sleep. Sleep sounds so—what are you doing?!” Luke asks, his eyes going wide when they land on me. I’ve pulled my t-shirt over my head and am halfway through pushing my joggers down my legs when I stop to quirk an eyebrow at him .

“I’m getting ready for bed…what are you doing?”

“Dean, you’re in my room. You’re getting naked in my room.”

“I’m not getting naked. I’m getting almost naked. I’d prefer to sleep naked but I’ve gotten used to sleeping in my boxer briefs since moving in. You never know when Lemmie or Mellie is going to hop into your bed in the middle of the night.”

“Okay but why are you getting almost naked in my room? Go to bed, man.”

“I am going to bed. My husband,” I point to Luke, taking a second to let my gaze drift over his body while I push my joggers all the way down and step out of them. “My bed.”

“I don’t…I…uhm…” Luke stammers, and I might think I was making him uncomfortable if it weren’t for the way his eyes are flicking between my bare chest and my tight, black boxer briefs.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress a smile while I preen a bit.

I might not be hard, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a nice bulge going on anyway.

And by the way Luke’s pupils are blown out, he likes what he sees.

“Luke, I agreed to no dating. I agreed to no intimacy. I agreed to all of my orgasms in the foreseeable future being artisan-crafted, homemade, me and my fist sessions. I’m fine with those things.

If you really want me to leave, I’ll leave.

But we’re married and we’ve got a long stretch of road ahead of us.

Personally, I’d very much like to not spend my time sleeping alone.

So tell me: do you want me to leave, or do you want to sleep next to your husband? ”

I watch as Luke pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying the kissable bit of flesh while he mulls over my request. After a long minute, I’m about ready to hang my head in shame, pull up my sweatpants and sulk away to my own bedroom.

But then Luke stands up and pulls his own t-shirt over his head.

“Honestly? I hate sleeping alone,” he says softly, taking my hand in his. “I’d really like you to stay.”

Relief washes over me, and I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. Without thinking, I move in an inch and press my lips to Luke’s forehead.

And I swear to everything holy, I think I hear him sigh.

“Let’s go to bed, corazón.”

“Mmmmphh,” I groan as the harsh glow of the morning sun beams me directly in the eyelid, somehow managing to burn my damn retina even though I’m pretty sure my eyes are still closed and that should be physically impossible. But what the hell do I know?

Since I moved into the Cannon house, I’ve outgrown the need for an alarm clock.

Turns out, an almost one-year-old baby is better at shrieking a person out of sleep mode than any phone alarm.

But I’m not used to the sun being the thing to drag me from dreamland.

I must have forgotten to pull my blackout curtains all the way closed before I dozed off last night.

I shift, ready to make my way downstairs with one singular focus—coffee.

Or, I try to shift. I can’t seem to move.

Holy shit. I’m laying here on my back, and I can’t move.

Oh my god. Am I having a stroke? Does a stroke make you unable to move to wiggle your ass out of bed?

What are the signs of a stroke? Something about toast, right?

If I were having a stroke, would I even be able to remember what the hell toast had to do with strokes?

A soft sigh breaks through my mental breakdown, and I blink my eyes open. At first, all I see is the ceiling fan whirring slowly. But when I look down, I find a mop of brown hair on my chest, a thick, muscled arm death-gripping my waist, and a leg that doesn’t belong to me draped over my thighs.

The scent of something earthy and evergreen—not toast, thankfully—invades my nostrils as my brain comes back online and I remember where I am. Luke’s room. Luke’s tea tree oil shampoo. Luke’s bed.

Well, I guess last night I sort of insisted that it be our bed.

To be fair, I would have left if he’d asked me to. I might have the pushy McKenna genes, but I know when to leave well enough alone. I gave Luke the opportunity to tell me to go, but he asked me to stay, and I did.

And now I am seemingly trapped underneath the weight of him with no way out.

This is not how we fell asleep. There was no discussion or building of pillow walls down the center of the mattress to keep us separate, but when Luke slid into his side of the bed, I laid on the opposite side.

He sleeps with a thousand blankets on his bed, so it was easy to avoid the “are we sharing a blanket? How close to each other should we sleep?” dance with all the choices.

We each occupied our own sides of the king size mattress, and I can’t speak for Luke, but once my head hit the pillow, I was out in seconds.

So how the hell did we end up here? With my blanket kicked to the floor—not surprising, I get hot at night—and my husband’s chest pressed against mine and the rest of him wrapped around my body like a baby koala, snoozing away while my morning wood tries to burrow itself inside his abdomen?

And if I’m not mistaken, his morning wood is having the time of its life pressing against my hip.

I blow out a breath, trying to decide the best course of action for removing myself from this situation.

If I wake Luke up to move him, he might be embarrassed by the way he clung to me in his sleep.

Or worse, he’ll feel my cock poking his abs and decide that I’m some pervert who just married him to get into his bed.

I decide to make myself stiff as a board and just sort of…

slide my way out from underneath Luke’s sleeping frame and out of the bed.

I suck in a breath, pulling my muscles in my core taut as I lift my hands over my head so I can hold on to the headboard for leverage.

Then, I slowly slip the leg furthest from Luke to the edge of the mattress until I can carefully lower my foot to the ground.

Luke sighs, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to wake up and catch me hanging half off the bed while I grip his headboard like a jungle gym.

But in a short moment, his breath is slow and even again.

I count to fifty before I risk moving, slowly untangling my other leg from Luke until it’s also on the ground.

The only thing left to do is to get my chest out from under him, and I figure the best way to do that is channel my inner magician and launch myself off the bed like Houdini yanking a tablecloth.

One, two, three…

On an exhale, I ground my feet into the carpet and slide out from underneath Luke.

When I’m free from his grip, I lose my balance and sort of somersault on the ground and knock my shoulder on the bedside table in the process.

It rattles against the wall, causing an echo-y noise, but when I peek up at the bed through squinted eyes, Luke is still fast asleep, having replaced my body with a pillow he cuddles against his chest.

Okay, two things I’ve learned about my husband this morning. He’s a total snuggle monster, and he can sleep through anything. Good to know.

I sort of half walk, half hobble my way across the bedroom floor to the en suite bathroom, flipping on the shower and pushing down my underwear before stepping under the warm spray.

My cock is still hard as stone, but I fight the urge to take myself in hand.

The image of Luke, mussed from sleep and warm against my body, doesn’t do anything to help the arousal coursing through my blood, but I have to stand strong.

Luke is taking the girls to an art show in the park this afternoon.

I’ll stay home and have some alone time with myself and one of my favorite audio erotica performers.

It’ll have to be a woman today, because then I won’t be tempted to shut my eyes and picture Luke’s pretty pink lips or the cut, muscular planes of his stomach.

I close my eyes, my fingers trailing down my torso until I reach my dick, and I?—

No! I drop my hand before I can wrap it around myself and turn to set the water to ice cold. Because as much as I might want to, I cannot jerk off to thoughts of my husband.

I cannot jerk off to thoughts of my husband. I cannot jerk off to thoughts of my husband.

I just need to repeat that mantra for the foreseeable future.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.