Beautiful (Beautiful Bastard 5)

The cartoon version of Jensen in this moment would be a man stepping out of a convertible, his hair askew and eyes widely stunned. “You are honestly unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

He laughed. “Good, I think.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

I swallowed down a flutter of nerves before asking, “Are you going to sleep in the bed with me?”

Jensen shrugged. “I hadn’t really gotten that far. If we share a bed . . .”

His meaning was clear. “You think if we share a bed, we might have sex.”

He nodded, studying me. “We might.”

I could barely move, I was shaking so intensely.

“Do you want sex?” I laughed at myself immediately. “I mean, not that we—it’s just, tonight when you kissed me, it felt like you weren’t just playing.”

“I fucking love sex,” he said in a quiet growl. “Of course I want it. But tonight was complicated, and I don’t just have sex with someone on impulse.”

“God.” I let my head fall back against the headboard. “That’s incredibly hot, and I don’t even know why.”

“Pippa.”

I grinned up at him. “Jensen.”

My heart beat a savage rhythm in my chest as he reached forward, lifting a hand and touching my bottom lip with the tip of his index finger. “Do you like sex?” he whispered.

Oh, fuck me.

“Yes.”

Jensen waved a casual hand. “Well, that’s good to know.” He sat up, blinking away as if we were done, and I caught the devious smile as he began to stand.

“You wanker,” I said, laughing and leaning forward to smack his shoulder. He caught my hand with his, pressing it just over where his heart hammered beneath his breastbone.

His expression shifted away from that playful smile; he suddenly seemed so unguarded. “Take it easy on me,” he said quietly.

“I will.”

He continued to stare, his meaning growing clearer the longer our eyes held.

“Do you want to put on a movie?” I asked. “I’m suddenly sympathetic to any prostitute ever who isn’t sure how to get the ball rolling.”

He stared at me, bewildered, before shaking his head and laughing. “I doubt I’d ever be able to predict what comes out of that mouth next.”

“I mean, I don’t care what we do. I want you to come over here and relax.” I really just wanted him beside me, warm and strong, curled up nearby. We had a week and a half left together on the trip. I could work up to sex.

And with Jensen, it was about more than that, as terrifying as that truth felt.

He leaned for the remote, turned on the TV, and began scrolling through the channels.

Our frank conversation had eased the tension somewhat, but it was still there, especially when Jensen selected Goodfellas and turned back to survey where I was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Okay?” he asked.

“There wasn’t much else on,” I said, nodding. “And I love this movie.”

With a small nod, he put the remote down on his bedside table, seemed to hesitate for a few breaths, and then reached behind his neck, pulling his shirt off.

“Bloody hell,” I whispered. In only a tiny flash, I’d memorized the entire shape of his upper body, and believe me—there was plenty to take in.

He held the shirt to his chest. “Is this okay? I get really hot and there’s not a fan in here. I’m used to sleeping with a fan.”

“It’s fine,” I said, waving at him without looking. His chest was a map of muscle, with the perfect amount of hair to make me feel the presence of a motherfucking man in the room with me.

He pulled back the covers and we both scooted under them, arranging our limbs carefully so as to not touch. It was an exercise in insanity for me: Jensen, in nothing but a pair of shorts, beside me in bed.

But then his leg pressed against mine under the covers—warm, the soft slide of his leg hair against my thigh—and with a tiny laugh he reached around me, pulling me so that I was resting my head on his chest.

“We don’t have to be weird,” he whispered.

I nodded, sliding my hand up over his stomach, feeling it tighten under my touch. “Okay.”

“Thank you again for what you did today.”

I could hear his heart beating against my ear, could feel his chest rise and fall with each inhale. “You’re welcome.” Hesitating, I added quietly, “I guess that’s what I was trying to say earlier. It was fun. It was easy.”

He laughed, and the sound was a rumbling echo against me. “It was.”

Jensen’s palm slid up and down my arm, from shoulder to elbow, and we watched the film together. Somehow I knew neither of us was paying much attention.

I liked the smell of his deodorant, the smell of his soap, but I liked even more the faint smell of his sweat beneath it all. His warmth was unreal: limbs long and solid, skin so soft and firm. I closed my eyes, pressing my face into his neck. Carefully, I slid one leg over his, scooting closer and cuddling into him. It meant that the heat between my legs was pressed against his thigh.

He held his breath—somehow making the room fall into a heavy, anticipatory silence—while maintaining the rhythm of his palm up and down my arm.

He finally let out a long, controlled exhale.

Was he hard? Was that it? Was it that my leg was so close to his cock, and my breasts were pressed to his ribs, and my mouth was only an inch from the tanned skin of his chest?