Love Letters From Hell

30 | enemy territory

I'm wide awake now, heart racing, starkly aware that I might be wearing a t-shirt but I never sleep with pants on. Fuck pants. Clearly, that rule still applies even when Aryan Shankar miraculously wakes up in bed with me. His fingers knead into bare flesh as he holds me close to him. I let out a breath, the warm, distracting brand of his hand on my ass, in my hair stealing all my coherent thoughts.

He's bear-hugging me.

In the most explicit way possible.

I take the risk to raise my head ever-so-slightly. His hand stays in my hair, doesn't tighten, but doesn't drop either, like he's fully acquainted himself with those tendrils, even in sleep.

It's ten in the morning.

I skim my gaze from the clock on my bedside, over to him.

His lashes are low on his cheeks, brows a clean, unworried line, eyes perfectly shut. His hand stays on my ass, spreading warmth. Propping my chin on the ledge of his collarbone, I eye him as he takes measured, slumbering breaths.

I spend five minutes or so just staring at him— because he's pretty— and calculating my odds for escape. I'm also calculating whether or not I want to escape— because he's pretty.

His chest is bare, crushed against mine. I can feel his heart pounding below mine. It's why I have no qualms about slipping my free hand into his hair, my eyes narrowed on the lines of his face. He doesn't stir. Not one bit. He just keeps me close, eyes shut. I seize the opportunity to dig my hips into his, feeling the soft brush of his boxers and underneath, a harder nudge.

His heart picks up under me and I feel his fingers tighten. I smile at his sleeping face, fingers in his hair as I croon, "I know you're awake."

His eyes still closed, all I get is a little amused twitch of lip.

Then, his hands are off me and his warmth below me flees. The mattress dips with quick movement. I'm suddenly on my side. Sheets I hadn't noticed before are kicked at my feet, my legs stretching out beside his, my back melded to his chest in an instant, the beat of his heart between my shoulder blades speaking of rapt wakefulness. And more.

As quickly as his hands departed, they return though, like they'd never been gone from me in the first place.

I have zero time to react, no time to decipher what's happened, as his right arm snakes under me, under my ribs, between the mattress, disappearing below the fall of the black t-shirt in a single motion. His fingers skirt along my sternum and my breath hitches entirely when his palm curves around one of my breasts, squeezing like it's his to hold.

I barely notice his other hand, skimming over my hip, my shirt lifted just enough in his taunting hold, that the elastic band of my panties, sporting a logo in neat cursive letters along the curve of my hip, is exposed. I barely notice because I'm too busy trying to twist my head around to catch a glimpse of him, only aware of him by his warm hands and the growing hardness against my ass. It's only 10 am.

Craning my neck, I see his closed eyes paired with an arrogant little smile.

And then I feel his fingers tighten around a nipple, pinching hard enough that my chest heaves, his other hand snapping at the waistband of my panties suddenly, sending it stinging back against my hip.

A gasp flies from me, my head whipping back around as I arch back into him. He's mean in the morning. And I just know he's smiling about it.

Regardless, his fingers roll a soothing, apologetic pattern around my nipple before moving onto the other, his hand on my hip following suit. I'm molten in his arms, bathed in morning light, and he knows it.