Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

I’m pretty sure I feel his nose in my hair and his breath on my neck before he lets me go. When he steps back he jams his hands in his pockets.

“I’m glad you’re home,” I say. “Safely. Home safely,” I tack on at the end, although it doesn’t help much with the breathless quality of my voice or the fact that every nerve in my body is singing.

“Me, too.” Based on the gravelly tone, I’d like to think I’m not alone in this feeling.

“Okay. Well, I should really go now.”

“’Kay.” He nods a bunch of times.

“See you in the morning.” It’s only possible if I’m still awake when he gets up.

“Definitely.”

I leave the condo before I say or do anything stupid. Now more than ever it’s apparent that I need to find a new place. I have feelings for this man, and it’s not just about wanting to get naked with him. The feelings have become real over the past several weeks. For me at least.

If I keep socking away the money from my tips, I should have enough for first and last in the next month or so, maybe sooner. The longer I stay here, the more difficult it’s going to be to manage the sexual tension between us, if this welcome home is any indicator.

At this point, I’d really like to get out of his space before I get into his bed. Sleeping with him while I’m still dependent on him for a place to live creates an inequity I don’t want to deal with. I never want to be in a position where I feel like I’m being kept and that’s exactly what this will be for me.

Chapter 15: Accidental Snuggles

RUBY

By the time I get home from work it’s almost two in the morning. The condo is quiet. I assume Bancroft is asleep. As I head for bed I nearly bypass my own room and keep going to his. That would be a colossally embarrassing mistake.

For the first time since he left on his trip I sleep in the spare bedroom that’s supposed to be mine. It feels really strange.

Bancroft is walking around the apartment in a pair of boxers.

Aside from the boxers he’s naked. No shirt. No socks. Just boxers. And for some reason they’re all wet and clinging to him. I don’t know why he’s wet, but I offer to help him out of his soggy underwear, dripping on the floor, making a messy puddle around his feet. I reach for the waistband aware I seem to be going against my own plan not to sleep with him, and watch goose bumps rise along his skin. Just as I pull them over his hips I wake up.

So much sadness.

The dream fades away and all I’m left with is dry mouth and zinging clit. I reach for the glass on the nightstand, but it’s empty. It’s four in the morning. I’ve only been asleep for an hour. I don’t remember finishing it off before I fell asleep. I do, however, remember rolling my marble while shoving my face in my pillow to thoughts of Bancroft before I passed out. The extra exertion probably didn’t help with my thirst issues. I also have a headache, possibly from being underhydrated. Diva told me to drink more water last night, but it must not have been enough.

I throw off the covers and hoist myself out of bed. I grab the bottle of aspirin tucked into my nightstand and my glass and make the trek to the kitchen—the built-in water dispenser in the fridge provides the best, most amazing cold water ever. Which is what I need right now.

I lean my head against the fridge as I wait for the glass to fill, down two aspirin with the water, then fill the glass again before I head back to bed with my eyes half-closed.

I slide under the now cool sheets—which makes me shiver a little—and rest my cheek against the pillow. Closing my eyes, I try to bring back the dream I was having before thirst woke me. I go back to the beginning, where he must have been dressed, because I’m a big fan of taking him from a suit to his birthday suit in my head. I imagine the way Bancroft—Bane—looks in his button-down with his tie hanging loose. Or his snug-fitting undershirt.

As I mentally undress him in my mind I can suddenly smell him. I must be on the verge of dreaming again because it’s incredibly vivid. I snuggle deeper into the pillow, willing my mind to go where my body would like to. I hear a groan, low and deep and then the bed shifts and a heavy arm comes thudding down on my hip.

My eyes pop open. What the hell? This is definitely not a dream. At least I don’t think it is. The bed shifts. Nope. Not a dream. Who the hell is in bed with me? The sheets rustle and the mattress dips as the hand attached to the arm that’s resting on my hip starts moving up my body.

“Mmm. This feels nice,” comes the mumbled, male voice that belongs to the hand exploring me over the blanket.

Holy shit. Bane is in bed with me. What is Bane doing in bed with me?

I’m frozen, sort of. I mean, I’m not really sure what I should do, because as much as I’m enjoying being felt up—even through the covers—I’m still really confused as to why exactly this has happened. Or how.

Suddenly Bane’s very fit, very warm chest is pressed against my back. And wait. Oh my God. Oh my God. Is that . . . it can’t be. Oh yes. It is.

Bane is naked. How do I know this? Because I can feel him against my lower back where my sleep tank has ridden up, leaving several inches of skin exposed. And his erection—his very hard, ample erection—is pressed right up against me. My theory on big hands is definitely true.

He nuzzles into my hair, burrowing his way through it until his stubbly chin rubs against my neck. I don’t think he’s actually awake. So I stay still, waiting for him to . . . I don’t know . . . stop moving around? I just need him to settle and then I can figure out what I should do. Well, I know what I should do, but I’m enjoying this a little too much at the moment.

He doesn’t settle, though. Instead, he adjusts the comforter so the hand that was exploring over the top is now exploring underneath. His arm comes around my waist, and then his warm fingers slide under the hem of my tank and splay across my stomach, moving up. He gets stuck at the elastic-y built-in bra and drags the fabric up.

He cups one of my boobs through several layers of cotton and groans. I barely restrain my own when he rolls his hips.

I open my mouth to say something, like maybe; “Hey, Bane. Why are you in my bed, feeling me up?” Or; “If you wanted to get your freak on with me, there are better, less awkward ways than creeping into my bed in the middle of the night and surprising me.” Or even; “Mind if I check out how generous that stick is jabbing into my low back?”

But none of those things come out of my mouth. Instead all I do is whisper-moan Bancroft.

It doesn’t seem to have an impact on the breast palming. In fact, he’s gone from palming to kneading. He makes a second attempt to get under the elastic with a grunt.

I should stop this. My brain registers this thought and immediately wants to dismiss it as unnecessary.

I really should do something apart from lie here, because this shouldn’t be happening in the middle of the night without some kind of adult discussion in which we weigh the consequences of me living in his house, being his pet sitter, and getting a little screw in on the side. Especially since he’s mentioned he’s not interested in getting into a relationship while he’s doing all this traveling. But since I’ve been fantasizing about the exact scenario, I’m a little too willing to let it go on for a little while longer.

This time he makes it under the elastic, his wide, warm palm curving around my breast. And then I feel his hot breath on my neck, followed by his lips on my skin. Oh Jesus, is he going to, oh no . . . oh yes . . . he rolls my nipples between his thumb and finger, his groan vibrating against me as his lips part and his tongue sweeps across my skin.