“The better fucking question is when did you go to sleep?” He stares at me with narrowed, accusatory eyes. Never. But he knows this too. “Good news, I finished packing in the wee hours of the night.” He rises and nears me a little. I tense at his closeness, reminded that he’s a man, his body easily dwarfing mine. It’s not a bad tense. More like the kind of tense that stops my breath for a second. That makes my head float and my heart do a weird little dance. I like it. The danger of it all. “Bad news, I don’t give a fuck about your packing,” he says roughly. “I just give a fuck about you.” He
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HE'S IN HER BED???
