Realizing that if I stayed in the bathroom any longer, Lucian might start to wonder what the hell I was doing, I left that certain safety and stepped out into our room. His back was to me as he stared out of the set of glass doors that fronted the sea.
His buttered-toast voice rumbled along my anxious skin. “Wind is starting to pick up—” He turned and fell silent. Crystalline-green eyes ran over me, hot and slow and thorough. The sound of his swallowing, a subtle movement of his throat accompanied by a soft click, pinged in my chest, and my breath hitched.
Lucian closed his eyes tight for one thick moment, as though bracing himself. When he opened them, his eyes were clear and cool. A lie.
“I’ll go wash up.” He strode right past me, a man on a mission.
Good luck with that, Brick.
He hadn’t been exaggerating about the wind, though. A gust blasted the windows and doors so hard they rattled. I hopped into bed, scurrying under the safety of the covers. At least that was what I told myself. That it was the weather I was hiding from. But when Lucian opened the bathroom door a few minutes later, the sound reverberated through me like a shot.
I couldn’t help but stare at him as he quietly went around the room, turning off the lamps I’d ignored in my bid to get to the safety of the bed—which was seriously ironic given that the bed was the least safe place to be.
Like me, he was wearing a ratty T-shirt, one that molded to the planes and contours of his chest. But he’d switched out his suit pants for jeans. My lips quirked as he slowly made his way to the bed, leaving only the lamp on my side table on.
“Are you planning to sleep in those?” I asked.
Lucian froze in the act of pulling back his side of the covers, then straightened and squeezed the back of his neck. “I didn’t pack anything else. I thought I’d be sleeping alone.”
“I know.” Guilt mixed with a weird protective tenderness for this man. Which was ridiculous, I supposed, given that he was more than capable of watching out for himself. “I didn’t either.”
He stood there, staring down at me with a helpless look, his jaw bunching. I sighed and leaned back against the plump pillows. “Just take them off. I won’t be able to get comfortable knowing you’re sleeping in your jeans.”
Some of the old smarmy Lucian sparked in his eyes, and his smile went sideways. “That’s a strange bit of logic, Snoopy.”
“No, it isn’t.” I held up a finger to count my points. “The idea of sleeping under the covers in jeans sounds incredibly uncomfortable; ergo, me knowing you’re in them makes me incredibly uncomfortable.”
“I could sleep over the covers.”
“Lucian. You’re dithering.”
“Dithering.”
“Yes.” I should know. I’d dithered like a master in the bathroom. “Just take them off, and get into the damn bed.”
Again came that sideways smile, like he couldn’t help himself. “There’s that bossiness you’ve been hiding.”
“Hiding?” I snorted, already feeling better. This I could do. “I never hide it. And I think you like my bossy ways just fine, Brick.”
“I do.” Holding my gaze, he unbuttoned his jeans and let them slide to the floor.
Mistake. Huge mistake, ordering him to take those off. God, his thighs. Could you call a man’s thick ripped thighs beautiful? I pressed mine together, trying to suppress the desire to straddle one of those lightly furred, powerful thighs and ride it.
Didn’t work, though.
He was wearing boxer briefs. Dove gray. Softly hugging all that hard . . .
Don’t look. Don’t . . . but the hem of the T-shirt only reached the top of his hips. The rest was lovingly displayed.
My eyes wrenched up to his amused ones. I grumbled and turned to flick off the lamp on my side.
Lucian’s slow chuckle in the dark followed. The bed shifted as he got in, the covers rustling with his movements. Hyperaware, I could only burrow down and try to get comfortable.
“This is fun.” His voice, dry with humor, sounded overloud in the darkened room.
I flipped around to face him, letting my eyes adjust. We’d left the curtains open enough that the room grew a dusky deep blue, and his eyes glimmered in the shadows, his inky hair a smudge on the white pillows.
“That wind is spooky as hell,” I whispered. “We could tell ghost stories.”
He hummed, as if contemplating the idea. God, but he was close. I was so attuned to him I could smell the soap on his skin and the faint mint of his toothpaste. I wanted to snuggle closer, put my mouth on his, and taste it. I clutched my pillow like a lifeline. I was not making the first move. A girl had some pride.