Page 74 of Stranger Danger

“Uh-huh…”

Two is better than four, which is what he told me two hours ago when the alarm went off. Plus, he’s still coherent enough to wake up and remember things.

We’re getting there.

Slowly.

He reaches back to grab my arm, pulling it over his waist and me down with it. I rub my face between his shoulder blades and throw my leg over his hip. Back into snuggletime.

“Head?” I ask.

He snorts. “Yes, please.”

I’m so damn exhausted that it doesn’t click for a solid two blinks. Then I kick his ankle with my other leg. His shoulders shake when he laughs.

“Seven,” he mumbles between laughs. “It’s a seven.”

“Do you want more Tylenol?”

“I want to go back to sleep.”

Yeah. Same.

The motel’s weird bathroom light clicks on, by itself, for the millionth time tonight. I swear I accidentally rented a haunted room. The television is stuck on one news channel that operates out of Kentucky with a terrible signal. The bathroom light thingie-situation is freaky. Not to mention, every surface has so much static electricity that Beckett’s hair is a solid ball of frizzy curls.

My eyes try to slip close again, and I force them open.

“Nausea?”

“Zero,” he says, even quieter. He laces his fingers through mine, bringing my hand up to kiss my knuckles.

“Lightheaded?” I ask, fighting another yawn.

“I’m horizontal.”

“Give me a number,” I mumble, but I’m already losing the battle to keep my eyes open. Cuddling him is basically cuddling a heater—he’s playing with an unfair advantage. I press my face harder between his shoulder blades and breathe in motel soap and rest stop rain that won’t wash out.

He doesn’t smell like vanilla anymore.

His breathing evens out, slow and deep, and I let myself relax into the lazy patterns he’s tracing across my knuckles. His lips move against my hand silently, but I already know what he’s saying.

“I love you too,” I whisper back.

The next time I wake up, it’s because my spine feels like it’s going to leave my entire fucking body. I squint up at the ceiling, flat on my back, watching the popcorn texture shimmer in and out of view like a rave. My stomach’s so tight, and my dick’s so hard I feel like I’m going to burst.

I reach down to figure out if it’s just a way-too-hot dream I don’t remember—to fix myself—but my fingers find the top of Beckett’s head instead.

Then I feel the edge of his teeth.

“Be careful,” I whine, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth works over me through my undies, hot and wet and relentless, and I shove my hand against my mouth so I don’t get us thrown out of this shitty, haunted place.

“I’m still horizontal,” he says quietly.

He pulls back just enough to peel my the black fabric down, and the cool air hits my rock hard dick before his mouth does again. The first touch of his rough tongue is almost enough to send me right over the edge. My back arches off the mattress, and he swallows me down like he didn’t discover he wasn’t straight recently.

Unfair.

Advantage.