Page 165 of Disarm
“You’re thinking loud,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
Of course I am.
“I, um…” My voice cracks. Kill me now. “I need to shower.”
His hand opens against my stomach, pulling me closer. “Why?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because I, uh, we… last night… and your thigh, and my—” My brain throws up its hands and quits. “You know why.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then he huffs out a laugh against my neck. “Baby,” he says, lips ghosting over my skin, “you came so hard I thought I’d have to call you an ambulance.”
I groan and drag the blanket over my head. “Miggy, I will actually die. You will be dating a ghost.”
“I would never date anyone as emotionally constipated as a ghost,” he says calmly. He tugs the blanket back down just enough to see my face. “You being this easy for me is, like, one of the top three joys of my life. Not a single molecule of me is grossed out.”
“I’m a grown man who came in his sweatpants from grinding on your thigh.”
“You’re a grown man who trusted me enough to let go,” he corrects. “Also, for the record, top-tier performance. Ten out of ten, would love to watch again.”
I swat at his chest, mortified. “Stop talking.”
Miguel grins and kisses my forehead. “Go shower,hermoso. I’ll start coffee. Then you can tell me all about your scary, terrifying midterm schedule.”
“Can we not make this about my midterms before I’ve even had my caffeine?”
“Fine,” he says. “We’ll make it about how hard you shook on my thigh.”
“MIGUEL.”
He laughs, full and bright, and it’s impossible not to smile.
Under the hot water, the mortification slowly washes off with the mess. I lean my forehead against the tile and let myself have thirty whole seconds of admitting the truth.
I like being this easy for him.
I like being wanted this much.
I like that my body trusts him even when my brain is full of worst-case scenarios.
Then I turn the water hotter, because I still have to show my face in the kitchen.
By the timeI shuffle out in clean sweats and a fresh hoodie, my hair damp, the condo smells like coffee and whatever Miguel has decided counts as breakfast. He’s at the stove in a worn T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, spatula in hand, humming off-key to something only he can hear. Two mugs sit on the counter, one black and one latte-colored with a dusting of cinnamon.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, eyes flicking down my body and back up in a one-second scan.
“Hey, pretty boy,” he says. “How’s the crime scene?”
“Do you want me to ever look you in the eye again?”
A smirk creeps across his face. “Thought that’s what I’m for—ruining you so thoroughly you can’t make eye contact.”
I shuffle closer, bump his hip with mine, and steal the latte. “You’re deeply unwell.”
“Ah yes, lovesick,” he says, flipping an egg. “And yet, here you are… stealing my clothes and loving me despite it all.”
I take my first sip of coffee and moan. “Unfortunately.”
He leans down and kisses the side of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
