My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,40

sleep. Seriously, I know I’m closer to the equator, but does that mean that the sun needs to launch itself up out of the horizon to stab death lasers into my—

A soft snore has me waking up a hell of a lot faster than the glare of the sun.

I lay stock still, though, trying to pry the cobwebs out of my mind and remember.

Lorenzo.

In my bed, by my side, damn near snuggled up next to me.

I should be mad. This is not what we negotiated during our hotly contested discussion last night.

“You get the couch. This is my room.” It takes all I have not to stomp my foot as I make the decree. Dinner was amazing, sexy, and romantic, and he boldly told me he wants to spend more time with me, which gets my blood racing and my pussy slick.

But I don’t think I’m strong enough. That’s why I’m dying on this hill . . . we are not sleeping in the same bed.

“Suit yourself. If you don’t want to share, we don’t have to.” It’s too easy, plus the quirk of his dark brow tells me he’s got something up his sleeve.

Still, I’m not expecting a king-size feather pillow to fly through the air and bop me square in the face. I sputter, “What the hell?”

He shrugs, pulling off his shirt and tossing it carelessly to the floor beside his suitcase. Utterly at ease, he tells me, “You don’t want to share, and I assume you’ll want a pillow to sleep on the couch. No?”

I bend down to grab the pillow and throw it back. But my aim isn’t as good as his and it goes sailing past him and into a lamp. “Shit!” I yell. But he catches it, righting it on the nightstand with sure hands.

“We are doing this pretending for your Emily, and I am not sleeping on a cot in my room or on a couch in yours. We can be adults about this, Abigail. This bed is near the size of some rooms.” He sounds so damned reasonable and mature.

Good for you, asshole. You can be mature and not attack me like a sex-starved bear in the middle of the night. I can’t say the same and I’m trying to save you—and myself—from getting sprayed with bear spray.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes off, and sighs at my ridiculousness.

He’s right. I know he is. I just have to manage to not impale myself on his dick for eight hours. I glance at the clock . . . make that six hours, if I’m lucky.

“Okay. But you’re sleeping on top of the blankets and I’m sleeping under them. No funny business.”

“Of course.” I think we’ve reached an accord, but he stands once again and drops his slacks to the floor, kicking them and then his underwear into the same pile as his shirt.

I screech, “What are you doing?”

He is nude. Fully nude and half hard. And not a blurry shape behind a foggy shower wall. No, he is live in Technicolor, every carved muscle and ink line, right down to his cock, which is lying down his leg.

My eyes lock on it. His hair is trimmed short and tidy, very European, and as I stare, it grows. “Uhh—”

“Abigail.” My name is soft on his lips, as though he’s in pain, and when I glance up to meet his eyes, he cups himself. “I sleep nude. I’m going to sleep as you requested, but you’re making it hard.”

“I can see that,” I murmur, wishing he’d move his hand again.

He chuckles, a deep vibration in his chest that makes his abs jump, and I come back to myself.

“Shit. Sorry. Okay, we can sleep in the same bed, but you have got to wear underwear. Briefs, boxers, tighty whiteys for all I care, but you have to cover up.” Or I’m never going to make it till sunrise.

That is my final offer. Every other line, he’s blown right past, and though I argued, I secretly wanted him to. But this one . . . I need him to do this for me.

“Very well, mia rosa. For your honor, I will respect this. This time.”

A shiver runs through me when he basically tells me tonight will be one of many nights he sleeps by my side.

Back in the morning light, he snores again, kicking a leg out of the sheet and rearranging himself. The blankets have fallen by the wayside to