Her yawn had been convincing, loud and stretched, as she settled onto the couch beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. “Long day,” she’d murmured, her eyes fluttering shut, and he’d wrapped an arm around her, thinking that was that. Maybe a movie, maybe just quiet, until she fell asleep and he carried her to bed. He’d even started to adjust the blanket, ready to tuck her in, when she stirred.
Not a sleepy shift—sharp, deliberate, her hands pushing against his chest to steady herself as she climbed onto his lap, her knees bracketing his hips. He froze, the blanket slipping from his hands, as her eyes opened, bright and clear, no trace of fatigue. “Tired,” she said, but her voice was low, playful, “but not that tired.”
The yawn, the head on his shoulder, the soft sighs—all a act, a way to lull him into thinking she was done for the night. He should have known better. She’d always been full of surprises, saving her boldest moves for when he least expected them. Her hands slid up his chest, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, and she leaned in, her lips brushing his. “Thought you’d get off easy?” she asked, and he laughed, the sound half-shocked, half-thrilled.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and felt the steady thrum of her heartbeat against his. Tired? Maybe. But desire had a way of waking her up, of making her forget the long day, the aching feet, the weight of responsibilities. And he? He was more than happy to be the reason she stayed awake.