* * * * *
Colin woke again, hours later, to an empty bed.
Instantly alert, he nearly threw the covers back, thinking she’d crept away while he was sleeping and determined to find her (wherever she was) and drag her back and keep her there until they had things sorted. The way things were, obviously, could not go on. He wouldn’t allow it. They needed to straighten everything out between them; he didn’t need to battle her while protecting her against whoever was out there trying to kill her. He still took the threat seriously even though there had been no further contact and no report of suspicious activity from the team that was following her.
Then he saw her coming from the bathroom wearing the green shirt he’d worn last night. His body momentarily stilled at the sight and then he settled back into the bed and allowed some of the tension to ease out of him. He watched her without saying a word, deciding that he liked, very much, the look of her in his shirt.
She was holding it together with one hand at the front and looking about the room with what appeared to be confusion. He watched with interest, wondering what she was up to as she walked to one of his dressers, pulled open first one drawer then closed it then another then she found what she was looking for. Closing the drawer quietly with her thigh, she shed his shirt with her back to him. Then she pulled one of the t-shirts he used to work out in over her head. As she was quite tall, it engulfed her in width but barely covered her rounded bottom.
There was something profoundly intimate about her wearing his clothes, not only wearing them but rooting around in his dresser to find them. If any other woman had dared to do this, he would have found it an unacceptable invasion. With any other woman, it would have been a line not to be crossed.
With Sibyl, he not only accepted it, he welcomed it and decided he liked this item of his clothing on her even better than the other.
She walked back to the bed, clearly preoccupied. She didn’t even look at him to notice he was watching her openly, lying on his side and up on his elbow. She slid between the covers, close to the edge of her side and settled with her back to him.
The instant she was settled, Colin’s arm shot out, hooked around her waist and dragged her (again) across the bed.
This time, awake, she made an angry mew of protest and whirled mid-drag so she faced him head on.
“You’re awake!” she cried, accusation in her voice, as if he was trying to keep this fact from her, which he was not.
“I thought you’d left,” he returned.
Expressions chased across her face from surprise to exasperation.
“I didn’t think of that,” she muttered and he could tell she was cross with herself.
He nearly smiled at the thought of her absentmindedness finally working in his favour.
Instead, he kept his mind steadily on his latest task.
“Are you ready to talk this morning?” he enquired smoothly.
Her eyes shifted to his face and they narrowed just as her lips puckered. The room was dim with early morning light but he could still see they were growing emerald. Quickly.
He had long since found her transforming eye colour a boon. She wasn’t likely ever to be able to hide anything from him when it was written, so clearly, in her eyes. Not to mention the fact that she was an incredibly and often hilariously poor liar.
“No,” she answered abruptly, everything about her showing she was definitely deep in her early morning grouch.
It was then the idea came upon him. A very pleasing idea. An idea that would make this morning’s anticipated skirmish go in Colin’s favour, and, likely, be immensely enjoyable in the process.
And Colin wasted no time putting it in action.
One of his arms was under her body; he wrapped it around her waist and bunched the material of the t-shirt up in his fist so it slid slowly up her bottom. He felt her tense as he ducked his hand under the shirt while his other arm went around her back, pulling her even closer to his chest. Before she could try to escape, he threw his leg over both of hers.
“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously, moving her legs under his thigh and he knew she was trapped when she made an aggravated noise in the back of her throat.
He didn’t answer as his hand started to move on the soft skin at the small of her back, leisurely forming figure eights on her body’s (nearly) most sensitive area, and her head snapped back to look at him just as her frame froze.
“Colin, what are you doing?” she repeated.
Her voice was now slightly desperate, definitely tinged with panic and she lifted her hands to press them against his chest.
“Making you talk,” he answered lazily.
“No!” she cried, realising his intent.
“Yes,” he retorted.