Page 65 of The Apparent Trap

I snap back to attention with a gasp, my hand moving right how I want it, his words ringing in my ears.

He groans at the sound, and I stop, raising an eyebrow. “Should I keep going?”

His sigh is thick, his gaze trained on my mouth, like he’s willing another gasp to come out. “I think you have to.”

I nod, my breathing heavier as I move again, my imagination running wild. Has cooking made him precise in every use of his hands? Are his fingers calloused from the heat of the kitchen?

But I don’t need to imagine the way he swallows now, like a man deprived. As though he can see every thought I’m having tattooed across my forehead, and it’s taking all his restraint to hold himself back.

And that desperation in his expression makes me needy. It makes me want him to let go, too, just a little, ignore some of his reasons. “If I apparently have to . . .” I pant. “Maybe so should you.”

I see the words land, see him decide, see him shift.

I watch as his hand moves lower, too, slowly, the outline visible even through the sleeping bag. It’s hypnotizing, watching his steady movement. Deliberate. Achingly sexy.

All the frosty clouds that come with my rapid breath hitting the cold air make my desire so much more open and apparent, a physical manifestation of how close I am to unraveling.

“I shouldn’t . . .” he sputters, his own breath speeding up. “This is . . . such a bad idea.”

“Coming in a closed sleeping bag?” I joke, my small chuckle punctuated by my own sighs.

“Ezzie,” he says, exasperated, turned on, amused. “Do not make me laugh right now.” I can see the ridge of his hand moving under the sleeping bag, and watching him makes me feel so much closer to falling apart.

It’s strange, this freedom. I’m inhibited only by all the “why else’s,” but not by feeling self-conscious around him. I’ve never had this with anyone—I’ve had actual sex that felt less intimate. This laughter, this playfulness, this eyes wide open, trusting.

And that’s what makes me fully let go. Everything whites out, everything is bliss, everything is his face and the way he looks at me and the chase of holding on to that feeling as long as possible. It’s a pendulum, punctuated by icy air coming fast into my lungs, the pain of the hit only accentuating the pleasure. As I come down from the high, I shift my gaze back to him. His heavy breathing makes it obvious he lost his own control right there with me.

“I think we should’ve added more boundaries to the no-touching rule.” His voice is gruff, exhaustion with satisfaction lining the edges.

“Such as?”

“I don’t think it’s helpful for me to know what you look like when you come.”

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. I can’t possibly be sorry when I feel drunk from his voice. And maybe I was too distracted to notice what he looked like, but I’d bet this is even better. This calm, this mask down. He’s flushed and gorgeous and sexier than I’ve ever seen him.

“What else?” I ask, now a mockery of all the earlier versions of the question.

“You’re right that coming in a closed sleeping bag is a terrible idea.”

I burst out laughing, and he does too. It’s so ridiculous, and now with the fog of all that desire sated somewhat, the practicalities of the situation seem comical.

“Just . . .” I snort, the idea so ridiculous. “Just wipe it . . . I dunno, outside the sleeping bag on the edge of the chair or something.”

“It’ll freeze,” he says, practically wheezing from laughing. “It’s not going to unfreeze for months, and someone is going to come to clean, or some other guest will walk up here, and there’s just like . . . frozen jizz on the roof.”

“This room is practically a giant bird feeder,” I say, giggling. “People will assume it’s something from the birds.”

“I’ll know,” he laughs. “I’ll be sitting at home like three months from now being mortified, thinking that there’s just like . . . my frozen stuff outside on the top of a hotel room.”

“You know this room has seen worse. We’re probably sitting on other people’s bodily fluids.”

He jerks to look around and then laughs again. “You’re impossible,” he says, his expression lined with affection.

“Well?”

He sighs. And flicks his hand out of the sleeping bag and rubs it on the side of the railing. He grimaces and then pulls his hand back inside.

“That’s going to haunt you for months?” We’re both giddy, smiling, still breathing hard.