Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell

But even in sleep she wasn’t immune to what he’d been doing. When he stopped, she snuggled into him, tightened her buttocks against him, making him bite back a groan of pleasure and need, making him want to strip off her pajama bottoms and feel her silky skin glide against him, her female to his male in all the wonders of what made the world go round.

Which was all wrong.

He shouldn’t want Darby.

Only he did, naked and beneath him, moaning his name in pleasure, wrapping her legs around his waist and meeting each thrust of his body into hers with an enthusiasm that matched his own.

He tried to tell himself that his desire was due purely to circumstances—that he’d want any attractive woman he woke up wrapped around, especially one who smelled so seductive.

He laid his head back on his pillow. A man’s subconscious was hell. It caused him to ignore things he didn’t want to acknowledge, like what he’d wanted to do since seeing her drop those naughty undies into the drawer. But it was more than sexy lingerie. It was the woman next to him. He liked her, enjoyed her company, her wit, her intelligence, her smile, the way she challenged him to be a better man, a better doctor.

All reasons why he wouldn’t seduce her. Their relationship was more special to him than giving in to sexual need. Even sexual need as paramount as what currently ailed him.

Stirring, she turned, snuggled closer, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder, wrapping her arm over his waist and running her fingers along his belly to settle just above the waistband of his boxers.

Ah, hell. He should get up, take a shower—a cold shower—anything to remove himself from the tempting lair he lay in.

But he didn’t want to climb out of bed. Not yet.

Without moving his head, so as not to disturb her, he glanced toward the clock. It was still early. They’d talked way into the night and would have another late night with her reunion. He’d just let her sleep for a while longer—would pretend she wasn’t who she was and that it was okay that he’d liked waking next to her more than he should have.

If not for his raging arousal that wouldn’t—couldn’t—be acted upon, waking next to Darby, lying with her like this, was nice.

Closing his eyes, breathing in her intoxicating fragrance, he lay next to her, willing his body under control and telling himself that any man who woke next to a beautiful woman would be reacting exactly the same way.

His mind and heart didn’t race because the woman he held was Darby.

Without opening her eyes, Darby knew she was in trouble. She was wrapped around Blake like the candy shell coating on her favorite chocolate treat.

How had that happened? Obviously she’d gotten cold during the night and her body had gone in search of heat.

And Blake was heat of the hottest kind.

He was lying on his back with her cradled against him, and delicious heat radiated from the smooth skin of his chest.

And her hand.

Dear Lord, her hand was at his waist.

Not on him, but darn near close!

Hoping he was sound asleep, she lifted one eyelid and glanced into dark-as-sin eyes.

He was awake, and staring at her as if he wanted to see inside her head.

He knew she’d virtually attacked his body during the night.

“Um, sorry.” Was that croaking noise really her voice? “Apparently I got cold.” Trying not to appear as rattled as she was, she attempted to disentangle herself. “You make a good heater.”

You make a good heater? What kind of stupid comment was that? Could she please just pull the covers over her head and never come out?

“Glad to be of service,” he teased, sounding quite normal and as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, that he hadn’t just wakened with her body trying to be the icing on his cake.

He wasn’t going to make a big deal out of her faux pas. Thank goodness. Then again, he probably woke with women wrapped around his fine body all the time.

Darby didn’t. Hadn’t ever. Despite the fact she’d had a few boyfriends, she didn’t do sleepovers. Ever. Each time she got close, old doubts stopped her, making her question motives, making her lose all desire to risk her heart.

But who could blame her body for getting as close as possible to a six-foot-two hunk in the flesh? Especially when that flesh held the soul of a man she was willing to risk giving her heart to?