She’d been dreaming about a tsunami. Emma had been ripped from her arms and swept away in the tumbling waves. Chloe had somersaulted through the water, bubbles rising from her throat as she screamed for her daughter. Now she was in a strange, but cozy, place. Judging by the sparse light, it was early morning. Emma was cradled against her stomach, warm and secure. There was another heat source behind her. A sleeping man, snoring softly against her nape. Mateo must have gotten cold last night and decided to join them. The front of his body was molded to her back, and his hand was underneath her sweatshirt—under her tank top—cupping her right breast. He made a drowsy sound and flexed his fingers. Her nipple hardened into a tight bead in his palm, jutting at the lacy cup of her bra. She was acutely aware of the inseam of her jeans, which had ridden up while she slept. Her vulva tingled with a mixture of discomfort and arousal. She knew she should disengage herself from his embrace…but it felt good.
