Last night when he’d asked her to move in, he didn’t think there was much of a chance that she would say yes, but from the moment he understood the problem she was facing, it was the solution that had made the most sense, and although sleeping in the guest room while she was sleeping in his bed was torture on one hand, he’d also felt a profound peace last night knowing that she was so close. She was safe and sound, sleeping in his bed. She was allowing him to take care of her and it moved him in ways he didn’t expect. He felt protective of her and possessive of her, but he also really liked her, and having her in his space felt so right, he also just felt…good.
It had been hard stopping their make-out session last night, but after a while, it had started to become painful. He wanted her so badly and she was so hot and needy beneath him, rising to meet his instinctive thrusts, moaning as he pillaged her mouth and molded the soft flesh of her breasts with his palms. At one point, he’d brushed his thumb over the stiff point of her nipple and she’d gasped and whimpered into his mouth, bowing her back so he’d have better access to her. She was so innocent, but her body kept meeting his, cradling his, seeking his—she welcomed his tongue into her mouth, his touch through her T-shirt. He didn’t want to push her, but what he knew (and she didn’t) was that if—or when—they ever made love, their chemistry ensured it would be nothing short of combustible. Once that thought had entered his brain, he’d been unable to evict it, and he’d finally had to roll off of her, regretfully making his way into the guest bathroom where he took a miserable, long, cold shower.
When he came out, he’d peeked in his bedroom, only to find her snuggled under his covers, her cheek on his pillow, her tired eyes closed as her chest rose and fell with sleep. He’d brushed the hair away from her forehead, kissed her tenderly and pulled the door closed. She needed to sleep, and he was grateful to provide her a place to catch up.
And today she’d be moving in with him. He told himself that asking her to move in with him was an opportunity for him to prove that his feelings for her weren’t based on their sexual chemistry. Having her in his space wasn’t just about getting in her pants (though he’d be a big, fat liar if he said he wasn’t hopeful), but more importantly, about letting her know how desperately he was falling for her and solidifying his place in her heart.
Chapter 8
After four weeks of whirlwind rehearsals, opening night finally arrived, and Elise stretched languorously in Preston’s bed. She didn’t have to be up for hours, but she was too excited to go back to sleep.
Last night, the dress rehearsal had gone past midnight and Preston, who waited up for her every night, was asleep in an easy chair with his Kindle on his chest when she finally got home.
She’d stared at him, at his tousled dark hair, stubbled jaw, and pillowed lips. His coal black eyelashes were impossibly long, resting on the tan skin just under his eyes, and his long legs, clad in old, comfortable jeans were stretched out on the ottoman before him. Elise had knelt down beside him, looking at his face in repose, unable to stop the fierce surge of love that made her breath catch.
For a week she’d lived with him.
It had been—without any shadow of doubt—the happiest week of her life.
Last Saturday night he’d picked her up at the fountain and brought her “home,” stopping at a Chinese place on his block to pick up dinner. He had cleared out two drawers for her and half his closet, moving a lot of his things to the guest room so that she wouldn’t have to walk down the hall to get dressed in the morning. Her suitcase had been packed with care and the rest of her things were neatly organized in three moving boxes at the foot of his bed. His thoughtfulness and care staggered her, and when they’d started making out on the couch after dinner, it had been even harder to stop than it had been the night before.
Preston had slipped his hands under her shirt, resting them on the skin of her back, and she’d known that he was asking permission to keep them there. In response, she’d kissed him harder, and his hands had skated up to her bra, his fingers resting on the clasp. When she’d slid her tongue deliberately against his, sinking her fingers into his hair, he’d unsnapped it, letting his hands glide softly around to her breasts. As he cupped her virgin flesh gently, lightly, her erect nipples had strained against his palms. She’d gasped when his fingers grasped the sensitive points, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, making darts of sharp pleasure shoot unerringly to her sex, which clenched and tightened. She writhed, pushing against him, wanting more and beginning to understand for the first time in her life the profound pleasure that a man could give a woman.