Wicked Games
Page 23

To my surprise, Dean picked me up in his arms and carried me to the bathroom, setting me on the floor next to the toilet. My stomach spun and churned, and I moaned and sank to the floor next to it, laying my cheek against the cool white porcelain.
“Too much beer and too much weird food,” Dean said, stroking my hair back as it fell in my face. “Are you going to be sick?”
I closed my eyes, as if that would help my stomach. “Don’t know yet.”
He walked away, and that simple act made my stomach churn a little more. The thought of me being sick made him ill.
I couldn’t blame him. We’d just gotten clean after two weeks of filth. Still, it embarrassed me that I’d repulsed him and I closed my eyes, laying still and praying for the vomit to stay down.
It did not.
Someone moved a minute or two later, and I opened my eyes to see Dean back at my side, offering me a slice of bread and a glass of water. Surprised, I stared up at him as he held the bread out. “You need to eat and drink this.” I groaned at the sight, but he insisted. “Hangover prevention food—trust me.”
And he pushed the slice into my hand and didn’t budge until I began to take small bites of the bread. When I was done with that, he handed me the glass of water and watched until I finished it as well.
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice. I didn’t know what to make of his thoughtful return. He could have left me on the floor and gone to sleep and I wouldn’t have thought any worse of him, but this was… startling. And nice. “I feel better,” I added.
“You’ll be fine after you sleep it off,” he told me, and helped me to my feet again. This time, we moved more slowly, with greater caution so as not to upset my stomach once more.
We moved back to the small bedroom, and I glanced at the two twin beds. A thin blanket covered each one, and the white pillows seemed inviting. I sat down on the edge of the closest one, and Dean helped me into the bed, pulling the covers over me. I tilted my head up to look at him and he gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, then moved to his bed.
Bed—for the first time in two weeks. So pleasant.
It turned out to be impossible to sleep in. The covers got hot within minutes, sticking to my skin and feeling smothering. The tiny bed was almost too soft, and I flailed back and forth in bed, miserable. It was like I was missing something, and it grated on me so much that it was physically impossible to sleep.
After I turned over for the hundredth time, Dean rolled over in his bed. “Can’t sleep?”
“No,” I said in a miserable voice. “There’s something wrong with my bed.”
“Too comfortable?”
I gave him a miserable laugh. “Maybe. Who would have thought?”
“You can come sleep with me.” In the darkness, I heard him pat his bed. “Just like back at camp. Actually, the camp bed is probably smaller.”
He had a point. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if he’d think I was too forward if I leapt back into bed with him and then decided that I didn’t care. I slipped out of my bed and over to his, where he held the covers open for me. Turning my back to him, I slid into bed next to Dean so we could spoon as we always did on the island.
My backside nestled against his, and his arm went around my waist as always, and he pulled the covers over me. “See, plenty of room.”
Strangely enough, it did feel roomy compared to our little shelter, and I snuggled down next to him, my body fitting against his comfortable, familiar molding. “Thank you, Dean.” And though it was hot under the covers within moments, his skin warm against my own, neither one of us moved, and I fell asleep within moments, his hand splayed low on my stomach.
 
 
Chapter Nine
 
 
Holy crap. I totally did not mean for that to happen. But at the same time… I don’t regret it. Not in the slightest.—Dean Woodall, Day 16
 
 
I woke up to the delicious feeling of a broad chest against my back, an arm locked around my waist, and a pillow under my head. In fact, it felt so wonderful I didn’t want to open my eyes.
“I can tell you’re awake,” Dean whispered against the back of my head. “You’re twitching.”
With a groan, I flipped over and burrowed against his chest, trying to hide from the sunny, too-bright world. “If I wake up, that means we have to go back.”
He laughed at that, and I felt the rumbles in his chest through my own body. Dean’s hand had slid to my hip where my sarong had bunched up high on my legs. He was rubbing the exposed skin there with slow, smooth circles, as if he couldn’t resist touching me. My face grew hot as I recalled—whoever had left us the sarongs had not left us matching underwear.
But I didn’t feel the urge to move, or to push Dean’s hands away. I remembered the shower last night and our explosive, frantic sex. That had been the most singularly awesome sexual experience I’d ever had, but I wasn’t sure how to initiate it again. My eyes slid open and all I could see was the lean, darkly tanned muscles of Dean’s torso. He’d lost so much weight in two weeks that his six-pack was etched and defined, and some of the bulk of his body was gone. Not that it made him unattractive—not by a long shot.
His breath fanned slowly on my hair, my head tucked under his chin. His hand continued to move in the soft, stroking motion, sliding up and down the swell of my hip and buttock. I looked down at my bare hip, the blankets around our thighs, and gave a small sigh at the sight. “I’m getting bony.”
“You’re beautiful. Always have been.”
My breath caught in my throat at that, warmth flooding through me, and I suddenly wanted him very much again. With gentle fingers, I slid my hand out from where it was tucked against my own body and brushed the taut skin over his abdomen. Inviting him.
Dean’s mouth pressed against my forehead, and he gave me a soft kiss, his lips grazing my hairline before moving lower. His fingers that had been stroking my hip grew possessive, clenching me toward him, and my eyes flew to his when a hot, naked erection prodded my stomach through the thin sarong. “You’re not dressed?”
He shook his head at me, a slow, sensuous smile curving his mouth. “You’re hardly dressed yourself.” As if to prove this point, his hand slid up my bare hip, pressing the loose sarong further up my body, exposing my backside. His hand skimmed the curve of my lower back, exploring. “No panties,” he said, leaning in to press another gentle kiss on my face, this time on my eyebrow.
It seemed we’d decided to have a slow, languid mutual exploration of bodies, and I was certainly game for that. My hand slid across his abdomen to his side, to the ridge of hard muscle where his thigh met his groin. Only men in the most incredible shape seemed to have that sort of muscle ridge, and I’d never seen one before on anyone I’d slept with. I was fascinated with his body. “You must work out a lot back home,” I whispered, skimming that fascinating part of his body with my fingernail.
He chuckled at that, burying his face in my hair. “I guess you could say that,” he said, his voice muffled. Before I could ask what was so funny, he kissed my face again, pressing small, light kisses on my cheekbone, my ear, my nose, my chin, before moving to my lips and continuing the same light, fluttery presses that made me tremble. I lay still under his ministrations for several long minutes as he gently kissed every inch of my face, his hand kneading my backside and making my entire body quiver.