Page 9 of Monstrosity

He's fresh from the shower, dark hair still damp and slightly curled at the ends, wearing well-worn jeans that hang perfectly on his hips and a black t-shirt that stretches across shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world.

Which, knowing Rio's job with the club, he probably does.

But there's something different about him this morning.

Something tighter around his eyes, a tension in the set of his jaw that wasn't there yesterday.

Dark circles shadow his eyes like he didn't sleep, and when our gazes meet, there's an intensity there that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"Morning," I say softly, already reaching for his mug. "Coffee's ready."

"Thank you." His voice is rougher than usual, gravelly with sleep and something else I can't identify.

Our fingers brush as I hand him the mug, and that simple contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.

He doesn't pull away immediately—neither do I—and for just a moment, we're connected by nothing more than coffee and the charged air between us.

God, I want him.

The thought hits me with its usual force, leaving me slightly breathless.

Five years of morning routines, of shared dinners and bedtime stories, of being part of his family without actually being part of his family, and I still react to him like a teenager with her first crush.

"You're up early," he observes, taking a sip of his coffee.

His eyes close briefly in appreciation—I've perfected his morning ritual down to the exact temperature.

"Couldn't sleep." Which is true, though not for the reasons he might think.

I was lying in his guest room—the room that's basically become mine—thinking about him down the hall.

Wondering what would happen if I walked those fifteen steps to his bedroom door.

Wondering if he ever thinks about me the way I think about him.

Wondering why, after two years of dancing around each other, we haven't crossed the line we both seem to want to cross.

"Everything okay?" There's genuine concern in his voice, and when I look at him, he's studying my face with those dark eyes that see everything.

"Yeah, just..." I wave a hand vaguely, turning back to the stove to flip the last egg. "You know how it is."

I don't finish the thought because how do you tell a man that you were awake thinking about what his hands would feel like on your skin?

How do you explain that you've memorized the way he looks at your mouth when he thinks you're not paying attention?

How do you admit that you've been in love with him for longer than you care to admit?

Rio moves behind me to reach for napkins from the counter, and suddenly he's there—his chest nearly brushing my back, his arm extending around me, the heat of his body radiating through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Then his free hand settles on my lower back.

The touch is light, could be completely innocent—just Rio reaching around me for napkins.

But his palm is warm against my spine, his fingers spread wide, and when he leans forward that final inch to grab what he needs, I can feel his breath against my ear.

Chills race down my spine, but not the kind that come from cold.

These are the good kind, the kind that pool low in my belly and make my knees weak.