He nods as he rolls my nipple between his thumb and index finger. A small moan falls past my lips. I’m unable to control it, control how he makes me feel. This is the first time in my entire life that I can say that when I look at a man, all I want is his mouth on mine, his hand between my legs, his body commanding mine.
Every.
Single.
Time.
“I don’t appreciate theatrics,” he says softly, his eyes fixed on my breasts. “I want real when I take a woman to bed.”
“Do you think I’m being real?” I ask.
His thumb releases my nipple and he moves his hand back to my hip, stroking me gently. I’m turned on and want so much more. And yet, I also want him to relax, and that’s what he seems to be doing. “Yes, I do think you’re being real. You hate me too much to pretend I’m giving you pleasure. If I wasn’t turning you on, you’d let me know.”
He’s very much right about that, but there is one thing he’s not entirely correct in stating.
“I don’t hate you, Huxley.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says softly. The tone of his voice is more teasing than accusatory.
“I mean, there are moments when I hate you, I’m not going to lie about that. But I don’t have an overall hatred for you. I actually appreciate what you’ve done for me.”
“It’s a mutual appreciation,” he says before he closes his eyes.
His breath evens out as his grip on me relaxes. Is he . . . taking a nap? With me naked like this?
When he doesn’t move, but continues to lie there, eyes closed, hand on me, I realize that’s exactly what he’s doing.
And maybe, in other circumstances, I’d take offense to this. I’m a naked woman lying right next to him. I’d expect him to want to take advantage of the situation, but Huxley doesn’t need to. He can lie here in comfort, knowing that I’ll probably lie right here with him.
Which I will, because this moment feels comfortable. It feels normal.
I close my eyes as well and let out a deep sigh as I allow the raft to float us around the pool. The incoming clouds slowly block the sun from crisping up our skin, giving us the opportunity to just enjoy the warm heat.
I’m not sure how long we stay like this.
I can’t be sure how long we nap, but it isn’t until I’m being carried up the stairs of Huxley’s house that I realize I’m no longer on the raft.
In a haze, I open my eyes and blink a few times. “What’s happening?” I ask, confused.
“I didn’t want you to get burnt. The sun came out again,” he whispers softly.
Carrying me down the hallway that leads to our bedrooms, I half expect him to kick open the door to his bedroom, but he doesn’t. He opens my bedroom door and then softly places me on my bed, rolling down the blankets and then slipping them up over my naked body. When he straightens, he grips the back of his neck and asks, “Can I get you anything?”
Caught off guard from his one-eighty in attitude, I shake my head. “No, I’m . . . uh, I’m good.”
He nods and takes a step back. “Sorry about that back there.”
“Sorry about what?” I ask.
“Touching you. I shouldn’t have. I’m just having a hard time keeping this professional, especially when I walk in on you naked. You’re damn hard to resist, Lottie.”
I tilt my head, trying to understand him. “When has touching me ever stopped you before?”
“I’m trying to respect what we have, not fuck it up.”
“Do you know how you can fuck it up?” I ask.
“How?”
“By closing yourself off.”
He grips his neck even harder. “I’m trying, Lottie.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say. “And I appreciate you opening up and talking to me. Answering my questions. It means a lot to me. It makes this situation easier, and honestly, I like getting to know you, Huxley. You’re a . . . neat guy.”
His brow quirks up while a slight smile pulls at his lips. “Neat?”
I smirk. “Yup. Neat.”
“Pretty sure no one has ever called me a neat guy before.”
“Such a shame.” I remove the covers he placed over me and stand from my bed. As I walk toward my bathroom, I feel his eyes tracing my every move. I walk into the walk-in closet and grab a fresh pair of underwear—if that’s what you want to call them. The fabric barely covers my ass. I look for an oversized shirt but remember all of my clothes are in storage. Groaning, I walk back out. His eyes immediately rake over me, from head to toe. It’s a heated gaze, reminding me that he might not have done anything with me this morning, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he wants to. “Can I borrow a shirt?” I ask. “I really just want to wear something oversized and comfortable.”