Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,45

desperately needed.

“About this,” I say and squeeze my fingers against her hip. “You’re in my fucking sleeping bag.”

“Deal with it, buddy,” she whispers back. “Just go to sleep. Warm, cozy sleep.”

And that’s pretty much all she wrote.

Not even a minute later, soft snores escape her nose and throat, and I’m wide a-fucking-wake again with a whole new set of problems to worry about.

Billie in my arms, the feel of her body against mine, and the startling fact that I don’t dislike it at all.

Son of a bitch.

My dick starts to stir again, and I try like hell to think of anything other than Billie. Not how fucking cute she is when she’s trying to act like a tough girl or how damn beautiful she looks when she first wakes up in the morning, coming out of her tent all groggy and sleepy, or how good her little body feels against me, or the fact that, deep down, this isn’t the first time I’ve thought about what this would feel like.

And definitely not the idea that she fits perfectly inside my arms, like she was made to be right here, the little spoon to my big.

Fuck, she smells good.

God, what is it about this woman?

Billie stirs a little, pulling me from my thoughts, and once she’s found comfort in sliding her feet between mine, she settles back into sleep.

It takes everything inside me not to push my nose into her hair and press a kiss to her forehead, and that’s when it really hits me.

I am so—painfully, gravely, achingly, undeniably—fucked.

Billie

When morning wood comes calling, do not answer or reply. I don’t think that’s a state motto anywhere or anything, but it most definitely should be.

The first hints of the morning sun start to invade my eyes, and the usual desire to get out of my tent and sit by the fire to thaw out my frozen ass is not there.

For the last forty-eight hours, I have gone to bed cold and woken up even colder.

I have slept like crap.

My damn bones have ached, and my brain function has slowed, and I’ve wondered a time or two how well the blood of a human body flows when it’s the consistency of slushy snow and how in the hell I’ve found myself here.

Normal people do not force themselves to go on a hike to hell in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, but normal people probably don’t tell their producer boss they know Luca Weaver either. Obviously, I’m experiencing an acute onset of lunacy that might be at risk for turning chronic.

But for the first time since I got here, I’m a warm lunatic. A comfy, cozy lunatic.

I swear, it’s like God himself took pity upon me during this camping trip and decided that I deserved one good night’s sleep.

I stretch my injured ankle a bit, checking on its status, and I’m relieved to find the pain has lessened considerably. It appears all that ice-cold washcloth insisting Luca did last night helped, and I’m half-tempted to apologize to him for acting like Cady Heron in that scene from Mean Girls where she calls Tina Fey a drug pusher.

But he doesn’t need to know that he was right, and I certainly don’t need to think about it.

Right now, I’m choosing sleep over everything else.

Cocooned by the kind of heat I’ve been dreaming about for the past couple nights, I settle back into the comfort and refuse to open my eyes.

The sun can wait.

Luca can wait.

All the miles in the world can freaking wait.

For once, I’m finally comfortable, and you bet your ass I’m going to soak up every blessed second of this.

Heaven, that’s what this is. A contented sigh escapes my lungs.

And then, something grips my hip and pulls me closer to the source of heat.

What the fuck?! Did I crawl into a cave with a bear?

Panic makes my eyelids flutter, and when the sounds of soft breaths that aren’t my breaths fill my ears, I turn into a statue and a wave of consciousness-stimulated knowledge crashes over me.

Vivid memories of last night pour into my mind like a tidal wave.

Being so cold that I couldn’t take it anymore, leaving my tent, getting inside Luca’s tent…

Oh sweet Lucifer, I’m not in a cave, and the warm body behind me is not a bear.

Unbidden, visuals of the very first day I met Luca Weaver flash through my mind.

His handsome face. His scruffy beard. Those gorgeous, dreamboat eyes. Endless miles of tight, firm muscles. His completely