“Daily workouts and five hundred sit-ups a night might have something to do with it.” There’s a smile in his voice.
“Overachiever.”
“More like doing my job.” He ducks his chin to look down at me, his brows rising. “Are you complaining?”
Hell no. “Just feeling inadequately squishy.”
“I love your softness,” he says in a low voice. Slowly, his hand eases along the dip in my side, up and down, stroking me as if I’m the best thing he’s ever touched. It’s so lovely that I shiver, and he stops as if he’s just realized what he’s doing.
I ought to put space between us, but I can’t. Not when his body feels so solid, his skin smoother than silk. God, I could run my hands over his rippled abs all night and not tire of it.
But Gray sets his hand over my roaming one. “Cut it out, Mac.” His voice is rough, almost pained. “You’re killing me here.”
I didn’t think I could possibly burn any hotter, but I do. Trying to ignore the rush of embarrassment flowing over me, I duck my chin and burrow into his side—because I can’t let him go right now, even if my life depended on it. “Sorry.”
His hand relaxes, and he gives me a little squeeze. “It’s just… You’re touching my stomach. I’m gonna react,” he adds with emphasis.
His meaning hits me full force and I freeze, my heartbeat thumping in my ear. Does he mean…? The supreme urge to let my hand drift down and investigate is so strong that my fingers curl into a fist against his skin. It doesn’t matter if he’s hard as a post. The fact that he stopped me makes it clear that he doesn’t want to be.
And I cringe. I’m being so damn inappropriate, it isn’t funny. I’m like some creeper. Gah. It’s bad enough that I’d basically talked myself to orgasm on the phone with him. Oh, God, I can’t think of that now. I’ll curl up and die.
In vain, I search to say something other than, Your body is irresistible to me and I had to stroke it. I fall back on, “I’m sorry. I’m… I don’t know, twitchy. Did I mention how much I hate being sick?”
His laugh rolls over me. “Once or twice.” Almost absently his thumb draws a slow S over the back of my hand. “I get it. You want to move, but it hurts. You want to get up, but you’re too tired.”
A sigh escapes me. “Tell me a story.”
“Oh, God, like The Three Bears or something?” He sounds horrified.
“No. Ass.” Smiling, I poke his side, and get a nice yelp out of him. “About you. Something to take my mind off the fact that I hurt everywhere.”
“My poor little Special Sauce.” His big hand spreads over my hip, a comfort and a brand on my heated skin. “All right.” He’s silent for a moment. “When I was seventeen, I shit myself.”
A shocked laugh breaks free. “Gray! That’s disgusting.” I laugh again. “What kind of story is that?”
“The kind that will stop you from thinking about being sick, and me from thinking about you stroking my stomach?”
Well, that kills my laughter. Me and my damn roaming hands. “So, you were saying… About your lack of bowel control?”
He snorts, a good-natured sound. “I had the stomach flu. Something fierce. But, back then, I was also a starting offensive lineman—”
“Of course you were. Like I said, overachiever—”
“Hush.” He gives my butt a light smack. “Anyway, I had it in my mind that I’d suck it up and play, do it for the good of the team. Man, it was bad. I could barely stand. My guts were cramping up in pain. And then a big fucking defensive end smashes into me.” He pauses, and I feel him cringe. “He literally knocked the shit out of me.”
I bite my lips to keep from snorting. “Oh, Cupcake.” And then I lose the battle and laugh, hard. “Just…no…”
Gray’s body shakes as he presses his lips against my forehead, his breath coming out in gusts as he clearly tries to control his laughter, and then it hits me: He’s trying not to jostle me. Deep inside my chest, my heart makes a tiny flip.
“Want to know the worst part?” he asks after a moment.
“There’s something worse?”
“Our uniform pants were white.”
“God.” I clutch his lean waist. “Cupcake.”
“They called me Stain from then on.” He makes a sharp, quick snort. “Some of those fuckers still call me that when I go back home.”
“Fuckers,” I agree vehemently.
He glances down and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I would think you’d have been one of the first in line to call me that.”
I press my grin against his pecs. “Can I?”
“Not if you want to live,” he says darkly.
“With the way I’m feeling now, chances of living are touch and go.”
Instantly, his body stills, and his hold on me grows more secure. “Don’t say that, Mac. Not even as a joke.”
And then I remember his mother. Horror has my heart skipping a beat, and I cling to him. “You’re right, it was a stupid joke.”
His lips brush the top of my head. Not quite a kiss but as if he’s drawing in my scent. “It was a stupid story. I should have said something else. Something nice to put you to sleep.”
Tenderness swamps my chest, and I swallow with difficulty. “It was perfect.” He is perfect. And I am so grateful he’s here with me that I nestle down, wanting to sink into him and never let go. “I love you, Gray.”