Page 52 of Stroked Long
“I am. Do you not agree?”
It’s obvious he doesn’t agree but I love playing around with him. Actually, I’ve come to crave that with him. To see that smirk, to hear that chuckle, to see the change in his facial expressions—it’s addicting. And I suspect not many others see this side of Bodi Banks. So, I also feel privileged.
“Rubes, that movie is fucking embarrassing with the wing flapping and horrible baseball playing. Joseph Gordon-Levitt should have shame for partaking in that film.”
I study him, really give him a once-over and place my hand on my hip. “Bodi, do you believe in angels?”
“Are you quoting the movie?” His grin is turning into a full smile.
Drool worthy!
“I don’t know, can you hear inspirational music in the background and see a poor little foster kid flapping his arms in the stands, a look of pure determination on his face, hoping and praying that the manager, George Knox, believes his story about angels guiding his team to win the pennant?” I poke his side. “Well, do you?”
“I can’t handle you right now.” A full-on laugh escapes him as he turns to face me, rolling his eyes and gripping my hand in his once again. “An Angels fan. Just my luck.”
Just my luck.
Those three words give me hope, hope that he might actually like me, that he might open up to me more and give me an exclusive spot in his inner circle.And right now, I crave that.
Tonight may have started with intentions of working on the foundation, but instead, it’s ending with the development of something more than a friendship. At least that’s how I feel.
Friends don’t hold hands in bed.
Friends don’t stare you in the eyes with such a powerful force that flip your insides.
Friends don’t inch closer and closer to you during a thunderstorm, so close that your knees touch.
He might be closed off, and he might be short with me, but his body language is telling me an entirely different story. His body language is speaking loud and clear; he wants more than friendship.
***
The pitter-patter of rain against a skylight wakes me from a deep slumber. A grey dim of light fills the room, morning barely poking through the continuous storm that hasn’t stopped overnight. Feeling out of sorts, I take in my surroundings.
Soft bed.
Cool, silky sheets.
Monotone colors.
Behemoth of a man wrapped around me.
Bare hand spanning the width of my stomach.
Wait, what?
Catching my bearings, I carefully look down and see Bodi’s body wrapped around mine, his hand barely up my shirt—just enough to be gripping my stomach—and his wonderfully handsome face is buried in my hair.
Bodi Banks is one hundred percent spooning me. Not only is he spooning me, but his hand is up my shirt, and he’s glued to my back, to the point that it almost feels like I’m his lifeline.
I’m not going to lie. I’m a cuddler. It’s intimate, it soothes the soul, and it’s a way to connect with another human being without pulling down your pants to let your privates meet up and have a party.
The question is, where do I go from here? Does he know he’s cuddling me? He looks at peace, which seems to be something he doesn’t find very often.
Before I can get too comfortable, the distinct sound of his alarm starts to beep and I hear his front door opening.
What was once a comfortable cocoon of Bodi muscles and warmth has turned completely cold as Bodi shoots out of bed, bare chest heaving in panic, his eyes wide with absolute terror in them.
He looks down at me but doesn’t quite register what I’m doing in his bed.
