Consumed » Kai Parker | Rewritten

Fourteen

The house is quiet when my eyes flutter open.

Dust swirls in the warm rays of morning sunlight that stream through the boarding house's grand window panes. My heart beats steadily, free of panic; my throat isn't sore from screaming myself awake.

The rest of night had melted into the first truly peaceful sleep I'd gotten in nearly two weeks–the one night I hadn't gone to bed alone.

I try to stretch and unfurl my limbs a bit more to truly absorb the relief, but I physically can't. Not without running the risk of rubbing far too inappropriately against Kai, who had subconsciously snuggled closer sometime throughout the night.

The witch's arm is locked around my waist and his chest–his bare freaking chest–warms my back. His forehead is pressed into the nape of my neck, as if he meant to hide from the sunlight behind him, and his soft, steady breathing tickles my skin.

And God damn it, it's a mistake to let my mind linger on how close he is, and how the proximity leaves so little to my traitor of an imagination, because now my heart's hammering like a drill. Can he hear it? Or–can he feel it? Is my body's unadulterated reaction to him going to be the mortifying reason that he wakes up, undoubtedly with a smirk and mocking comment at the ready?

I should free myself from his grip now and make a beeline for the shower, before he can dare to say an infuriating word. But stupidly, I don't. The nerves that Kai naturally sets off in my stomach are, truthfully, a nice change of pace over the spine-chilling horror from my nightmares. And...this position isn't necessarily uncomfortable. Just unexpected. And a lot. A whole lot of Kai Parker to kick off my day, before I've even had a chance to steel my sleep-addled mind.

Then, Kai shifts slightly, causing his lips to brush light as a feather over my pulse point. My breath hitches like a stuck gear.

"Could get used to waking up like this," he murmurs. His voice is gravelly with sleep and sets off a new round of flutters in the bottomless pit of my stomach.

"Well, don't. Some of us like our personal space," I mumble, hoping to stave off my blush before he notices.

"Mmm, I'm sorry." Despite the laziness to his reply, his shit-eating grin still radiates through his voice. I narrow my eyes. "Don't see you in much of a hurry to get away, though."

"I allowed it while you were still asleep. You did let me sleep here, after all, so..." I trail off, fingers twisting into my side of the blanket.

"I did." He lifts the arm that had been wrapped around me, then slides back to grant me some space. "And you slept well?"

I roll over to face him, unprepared for the endearing, close-up sight. There's a leisurely tilt to his lips and his dark hair is adorably ruffled.

"Yeah," I answer quickly, lest I end up gazing at him all morning, dumbstruck. I offer a small, grateful smile. "No bad dreams. Guess I just needed some company."

"Guess so." The slightly smug reply is his lighter version of a told you so. He runs his fingertips along the side of my hip and my heart, which had just begun to adjust to a steady beat, quickens again. "And I'm always..." His eyes follow the trail of his fingers, which stop teasingly near the raised hem of my tee shirt. "...willing to provide."

I clear my throat pointedly and grip his wandering hand, then guide it back to the mattress. Before I start indulging thoughts of straddling the bare-chested witch and–

"I'm gonna shower," I say a bit too promptly and hurriedly climb out of bed. "See you for breakfast?"

"Sure." He sits up against the headboard, sheets pooling down to his waist to reveal the bandage I'd placed the day before. When I stabbed him thinking he was his father, I wince in memory. "Omelettes?"