Page 42 of A Dark Fall

I laugh to myself as I walk to the en suite, picking up my bathrobe from the chair and wrapping it around my cooling body. He watches me the entire way, and I revel in it.

“That won’t be on for long, Alex ... trust me,” he says sleepily.

I shake my head at him as I close the en suite door. In the bathroom, after washing my hands and brushing my teeth, I stand in front of the mirror to look at myself. Then I smile like a fool at my reflection.

I look well and truly seen to.

I had intense, mind-blowing sex with Jake Lawrence, and not just in my head. It happened.

I try to arrange my hair into something acceptable, but my mind wanders, and then I’m running my fingers over my mouth and closing my eyes as I remember the feel of his lips on mine. I shake myself out of it, because why on earth am I standing in the bathroom fantasizing about him when I have the real thing naked in my bed?

His arm’s flung over his eyes as I near the bed, and it doesn’t move as I climb into it next to him. His body is still and his breathing even, and soon, I realize why. He’s sound asleep. Gloriously naked and sound asleep in my bed. He’s on top of the quilt, and so I pull the throw from the foot of the bed over him and watch him for a moment, marveling at his beauty.

It’ll be strange, having someone sleeping next to me after all this time. I decided pretty quickly after Ben left that I enjoyed having my king-size bed to myself. But as I look down at one gorgeously asleep Jake Lawrence, I’m more than happy to make an exception.

I wonder vaguely if he dreams, and if so, what about, before reaching over his body to switch off the lamp. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my eyes close, and I drift off to sleep feeling satisfied, comfortable, and warm next to him.

I also feel a weird sense of pride that I managed to tire him out.

When I open my eyes, my body is turned toward him, his arm weighty and possessive across my body as he sleeps. I like how it feels there. I also like that he doesn’t appear to be a snorer. His breaths are deep and calm and even. I can live with someone in my bed who isn’t a snorer.

I shift slightly so I’m flat on my back, but he doesn’t flinch, out cold and dead to the world. Well, I suppose that’s what giving someone three orgasms in quick succession will do to you. Not “someone” though. Me. I was the one he wore himself out pleasuring. I sigh girlishly and take the opportunity to just watch him sleep. Is that creepy? Maybe, but since I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to do it again, I’m not going to beat myself up about it.

He has long, thick lashes, I notice. Unfairly feminine, and they rest across the smooth, tanned skin of his cheeks. There’s no swelling around his nose at all, thank god. My eyes drop to the plump lips that did exactly what they promised last night and more.

The covers are below his waist, giving me a full view of his magnificent inked body, and as my eyes move down to the dark sprinkling of hairs that disappear below the sheets, my mouth actually waters. The wicked thought that crosses my mind causes me to glance back up at his face, fearful the volume of my dirty mind has somehow woken him up.

Christ, he’s ridiculously good-looking, really.

My next thought is that I really hope this morning isn’t awkward. Last night, I was tipsy on cider and overcome with lust, and everything always looks a lot more fragile and a lot less pretty in the harsh light of day.

Well, everything except him.

He looks the same. Probably better, actually, with the sunlight hitting the hard lines of his body and his gorgeous sleeping face. A disarming thought enters my head: I want to keep him for a while. I want more than one night or a couple of nights with him. I want to call him when I’ve had a bad day, have him sit next to me at an event that calls for a couple.

Oh my god, I’m in trouble. I let my gaze drift down his body to linger on the ink across his abdomen. It reads “C W,” followed by an artistic, abstract heart and a date marked in roman numerals. Somehow, my foggy morning brain manages to work it out: November 4, 2016. A date four years ago that means something to him. A woman from his past who means something to him. I imagine Claire or Catherine or Carla or some other name of a girl I obviously now loathe.

Okay, I seriously need to get a grip. I also need to pee again and drink some water because I have morning cider mouth.

I slide out from under his arm and shimmy gently over to the edge of the bed. It’s then I notice Fred sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed between Jake’s legs. I nod at him. Can’t really blame him for that.

I scrub my teeth while I pee, splashing some water on my face to put some life into it. When I come out of the bathroom, I see he’s awake, though still lying where I left him.

He turns his head to smile at me. A small, lazy thing. “Morning.”

“Morning.” I can’t help but smile too, something like embarrassment rushing to my cheeks.

“What’s the chance of some breakfast then?” He yawns, but the heat stays in his eyes. It makes my legs weak. “I’m fucking starving.”

Something clenches tightly below, and I feel my face flush. It’s an innuendo. I’d have to be blind and dumb not to get it.

“I’m not sure what I have in,” I say apologetically. “I can make you some toast?”

“I’ll take whatever you’re offering, Alex,” he says, the intonation loaded.

I brush a hand through my hair and look away from him briefly. I hear a rustle of bedcovers and the sound of him stretching. He rolls his shoulders and twists his neck to one side, then the other. There’s a clear crack. The movement disturbs Fred, who stands up and yawns, stretching too, before jumping off the bed and out of the room.

“Ah, I fell asleep on you last night. I’m sorry.” He looks unapologetic, his mouth playful.