I opened my eyes to see snowy linen stretched out in front of me, a marble-topped table with a glass of water. Through the window, the brightly lit revelry of the French Quarter at night was visible through wavery glass. And then I was abruptly aware of an arm, draped heavily over me, fingers wrapped snugly against my rib cage, a few centimeters from second base. Luc’s body was curled into mine, our knees nestled like puzzle pieces, our feet tangled together. His breath drifted over my shoulder, stirring my hair, but he slept on. The rise and fall of his chest against my back stayed slow and regular, unlike my erratic heartbeat. The thin veneer of my control started to crack. Any moment, it would vanish completely. Underneath lay bottomless wanting, the knowledge that if I dove in, I’d never find solid ground beneath my feet again. Trying to put some distance between us, I wriggled out from beneath the weight of his arm. “Keep movin’ like that, I’m going to think you’re interested in more’n sleep.”
