Page 114 of Playing With Fire

It takes my brain approximately five seconds to catch up with my body.

I don’t move. I try not to breathe. Because I’m currently curled into Hayes Bishop and clinging to him like my life depends on it.

My cheek is pressed against his chest. The throw is twisted between our tangled legs, and sometime during the night, his arm found its way around my waist. The evidence is his large hand resting against my hip.

I stare at it. Apparently, when we’re awake, we have clear boundaries, but all it takes is falling asleep on the couch to blur all those lines into oblivion.

Pale light filters through the large windows, giving a soft glow to the Chicago skyline. The television is still on, an early-morning sports show playing with the sound muted.

The only thing I can hear, besides my heartbeat whooshing in my ears, is his even breathing and Darcy’s quiet snoring.

I slowly look up to find Darcy curled near Bishop’s head, both still sound asleep.

I’ve seen Bishop sleep before. Family vacations. Bus rides. Our living room after late away games when he and Declan were younger.

But never like this. Not close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of him under me.

His head is tipped against the couch, blond hair falling across his forehead—no charming grin or disarming dimples. No smart-ass comment locked and loaded on his perfect lips.

Just Hayes Bishop looking more peaceful than he has any right to, while I battle the turbulence I’m feeling in my chest.

Darcy’s eyes crack open.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

He blinks at me.

“You’re in no position to judge anyone. You’re sleeping on him too.”

Darcy closes his eyes again.

I can’t reach my phone, but the steady chime lets me know that if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for work.

Carefully, I curl my fingers around his wrist and lift, trying to slide free without waking him. Bishop shifts, tightening his grip on my hip and pulling me with him.

One minute I’m wedged between him and the back of the sectional, and the next I’m straddling him and his very obvious morning—Oh. My. Gosh. I knew he would be—but he’s—I can’t even think about this. And I definitely can’t move with this… this thing pressed between us.

Don’t move, Delaney. No matter how much you want to. Don’t move. Do. Not. Move. Do not pass go and sure as heck don’t collect two hundred dollars.

I don’t move. But he does.

His hips flex upward, interrupting my little pep talk. Heat floods in places I can’t deal with at seven in the morning, especially when I’m already running late.

Bishop makes a low sound deep in his throat, a sleepy murmur I feel more than hear, then pulls me tighter against him.

My breath leaves me in a startled rush. “Bishop,” I whisper.

Nothing.

He’s still asleep. Or mostly asleep.

His face nuzzles into the curve of my neck, warm breath on my skin. The faint scrape of his stubble tickles beneath my ear as he shifts closer, and every coherent thought leaves my mind… except for one.

This feels so good.

His lips brush my neck. It’s barely even a kiss. More instinct than intention, but it’s everything to me.

A tiny sound slips out before I can swallow it. Then I feel it. The exact moment he wakes.