Cyrus (The Henchmen MC 9)

"So the question is, food somewhere out here in the great big yonder, food in the hotel restaurant, or food in bed while in pajamas?"

I turned my head to smile up at him. "Was that really even a question?"

And it wasn't until I got back into the hotel, after dragging my bag with me into the bath, and taking a quick soak before the food arrived, that I realized, in my haste, I hadn't packed pajama bottoms. To add to this dilemma, unfortunately, my pajama shirts were not of the long variety either.

I dried the rest of the way off, shimmying into some panties, shrugging on the tee I did have, then throwing one of the fluffy, white hotel room robes on, and belting it.

Sleeping in a robe was going to be a chore, but it would work. I just had to find a way to sneak into a store the next day to get a pair of sweatpants for the next night.

"I think the dessert was overkill," Cy announced as I came out into the main room, the rich, hearty smell of pasta sauce mingled with the decadence of chocolate making my belly grumble, reminding me that I had only eaten a hot pretzel so far that day.

"Dessert is never overkill," I objected, opening the top to my plate of lasagne which had been hideously overpriced, but kind of smelled like it was worth it.

"Alright, pick a movie," he declared, reaching for the remote.

"I've picked everything all day. Pick your favorite movie."

I almost instantly regretted that, wondering if maybe his favorite movie involved a lot of gratuitous violence and explicit sex scenes that would be, ah, problematic.

Not because I didn't want to go there with Cyrus; of course I did. But just because we hadn't gone there yet, and watching it would just make me all squirrelly inside.

But, he saved me by picking some baseball movie I had seen while flicking through the channels but never stopped to watch.

Thankfully, Major League did not have intense violence or explicit sex scenes, and I was scraping my chocolate cake plate clean by the time the edits were rolling.

"So," Cy said, as he came back from putting the cart out. "This thing starts at ten tomorrow. You want to get up and cram something in early? Or do you want to sleep in?" he asked as he kicked out of his shoes, and went rummaging through his small bag.

I leaned back in the bed, body aching in weird places thanks to using muscles I was sure had long since taken up residence in a body that would actually use them. "Um, have you felt these mattresses?" I asked, smiling a little lazily, feeling the day of walking catching up to me. "We're sleeping in."

"Sounds good to me," he agreed, moving off into the bathroom to shower.

I tried.

I swear I did.

I tried really, really hard not to think about him in there.

Naked.

Under the stream.

Beads of water slipping down his chest, between the muscles of his abs, sneaking lower to his...

Okay.

I had to focus.

I was in a beautiful hotel room in a bustling city. I did not need to be thinking about abs and happy trails and...

Oh, it was useless.

So I went ahead and turned off my light, climbed under the covers, and thought about it.

Thought about it all.

In exquisite detail.

Until I was so turned on by just my imaginings that when he came out of the bathroom with a small cloud of smoke shirtless with his heavy black sweatpants slung low, yeah, I may have actually let out a little whimpering noise.

What can I say?

It was all just too much.

At the sound, Cy's gaze moved in my direction for a second, eyes a little bedroom-sexy, but then he looked away, going to the other light to turn it off, leaving just a small nightlight type of thing on near the door.

A bit uncomfortable with the silence - and possibly embarrassed about my whimper - I was the one to speak first.

"Goodnight, Cyrus."

He paused in pulling the sheets down, slowly turning to face me, then coming to my side of my bed. "Remember what I said about how we say good morning?" he asked.

Could I ever forget?

"Yeah."

"Want to see how we say goodnight?"

Was there even a way to say no to that?

But, seemingly unable to form any coherent words right about then, all I could manage was a nod.

That was all he needed, though.

His hand reached out, snagging my sheets, and whipping them to the side. His finger moved down near my ankle, touching the skin just at the outside, then gently stroking upward. So slowly that goosebumps raised on my skin, and the pressure of desire on my lower stomach amplified by ten-thousand by the time his finger touched the side of my knee.