Softer? More affectionate?
I can’t put my finger on the thoughts going through my head or the flutters that are in my stomach, but when Davis’s hand hits the mattress and rests between our two bodies, I find my hand gravitating toward it.
Slowly I slide my palm over his, a tingling jolt of electricity shooting up my arm, down my spine, and throughout my entire body.
What is this?
He’s not a stranger anymore. He’s not really my friend; not really, not so soon. Can that happen this soon? Friendship?
We’re certainly absolutely not dating. This wasn’t a setup in any way by our friends, I’m sure of it. So why do I suddenly feel romantic right now?
Why do I want something to happen between us?
I’m not normally this kind of girl—but then, I’ve never been stranded with a man in a camper before. Seems my imagination takes me to places I don’t normally go when I’m in close quarters with a dick.
My hand lingers over his.
His arm twitches as if the motion tickles him.
“Whoa tiger, what’s going on there?” he asks in the dark, his hand staying exactly as it is.
“I don’t know,” I answer with honesty, blurting out things I shouldn’t be blurting out. I blame the darkness and the silence. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a certain type of way. Is that weird?”
His thumb brushes the side of my hand. “I don’t think so; it’s very cozy in here.”
Then, Davis laces his fingers through mine as if to punctuate the statement; it’s big and warm and solid. Calloused, too. Somehow makes me feel safe and secure despite the fact that we are both in this bed because he was afraid. And not the other way around.
I’m definitely in the mood to snuggle.
Etcetera, etcetera.
Wonder what he would do if I roll to my side and put my hand on his broad chest. The thought makes me laugh because I know what he would do if I rolled over and put my hand on his chest: the man would accept the affection as any man would.
He’s only human.
And he has a penis.
Plus, he is a loving guy.
I highly doubt he would shove me off of him even if he wanted to—Davis comes off as polite.
I have a feeling that he may be waiting to see what I’m going to do as we lay here—am I going to continue holding his hand, or am I going to make a different kind of move? Where is this leading, I can almost feel him wondering. What is she going to do?
Surely he doesn’t think we’re just going to lay here all night platonically holding hands? On the other hand—do I want to be the one to make the first move?
It seems to be a common theme in my relationships with the opposite sex.
“There’s nothing wrong with making the first move,” my mother’s words go through my head. We’ve had this conversation a few times in the past after dating a string of men who were beta while I was on my quest to find me more of an alpha. “What difference does it make who makes the first move,” she has preached more than once.
She’s so wise.
Not sure what move I even want to make, I simply let us lay here staring up at the ceiling, wondering what time it is now that the minutes and hours are ticking by. Davis is going to be in rough shape tomorrow and I’m glad I get to sleep in even if he doesn’t. I don’t even want to know what time he has to be out the door.
One too many flights at dawn had me vowing never to book a flight before eight in the morning ever, ever again.
I won’t lie, I’m getting a little squeamish with his thumb slowly caressing mine, which is totally ridiculous because it’s just his thumb lightly rubbing on my skin—it’s not like he’s stroking my boobs or anything. It’s basically the equivalent to a pat on the back for the most part; nothing sexual. Nothing to write home about.
So why is it giving me tingles down south?
Because you like him.
Really like him.
Ask him on a date then, for heaven’s sake—don’t put the moves on the dude while you’re sharing a bed with him!
Um because I’d rather not wait?
God Juliet, you’re worse than one of your students—those kids don’t wait for jack squat and apparently you’re no different.
Finally, rolling to my side to face him, I’m still holding his hand but letting my other hand rest on his bicep. He’s wearing a tee shirt tonight and I’m able to touch his bare flesh, running my fingers up and down the crook of his arm.
I hear and feel him take a breath.
His skin is so soft…
“Juliet?”
“Hmm?” I hum, lost in the rhythm of drawing on his skin with the tip of my finger.