Nobody Sees, Nobody Knows [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Forty-Eight

I wake up in stages.

The first thing I notice is a firm, weighty, masculine body wrapped around me in a bevy of arms and legs and crazy bedhead that tickles my nose.

I blink slowly and fuss with the sheet, yanking it up so it covers our shoulders, listening to the muffled, almost snore of Jensen's breathing. I kiss the nape of his neck, soft and warm.

The next thing my senses pick up on is the blaring of my phone alarm where I left it on the nightstand.

Jensen grunts awake and runs a tongue over his teeth, eyes still screwed stubbornly shut.

"Gonna fucking trash that thing," he mutters, flopping back onto his own pillow and wrapping an arm around his head to muffle the sound. Yeah, that's my love.

"Definitely not a morning person," I smirk, one arm snaking out from under the covers to silence it. Jensen's pectoral muscle twitches as he adjusts his position, burrowing deeper into his pillow with a contented sigh.

Wincing, I pull myself into a sitting position on the bed. I think for a second that we should've called it a night - or rather, morning - after round five.

But only for a second.

I slip out of bed with a sheet around me and go over to stand looking out the window. The sun is rising over the courtyard of the hotel and it dapples through the canopy of the shady trees, painting the cars in the parking lot golden fire and burnt shadows.

"Good weather for the trip back," I murmur thoughtfully.

I hear the soft rustle of sheets and the creak of the bed, followed by the padding of footsteps. Jensen comes up behind me and wraps an arm around my waist, tucking his chin into my shoulder.

He's totally unashamed of his nudity, a fact I'm inherently grateful for because every inch of him is fucking beautiful.

"More sex," he growls, his hair tickling my jaw as he nuzzles my neck.

"Good morning to you too." I roll my eyes.

I'm tired, stretched out from our earlier activities; my throat is busted, voice slightly hoarse, and even my runners' thighs are aching. I'm forty-freaking-two years old.

We collapsed together in a tangle of sweaty limbs at around 4 A.M., breathing deep in contentment, Jensen's chest flushed a pretty pink and his heart racing under my cheek. And I was sure we were done for the night. I was sure it was no longer physically possible for either of us to orgasm.

Then the fucker whistled a catcall from his perch on the bed when I got up for some towels.

Which irritated the hell out of me.

Which led to more angry sex.

I sigh, embarrassed by my apparent regression into my teenage years. I was reckless back then; I hadn't borne a family and career on my conscience yet.

But maybe I need a bit more recklessness in my life.

And, shit, Jensen makes me feel reckless.

He fits his hands low on my backside, kneading the firm flesh. "C'mon," he murmurs, leaning around to brush our lips together. "Come shower with me and then we can get breakfast." Another kiss, coaxing my lips open with a swipe of tongue.