“What?” He’s grinning at me and he looks so delicious I laugh harder.

“Nothing.”

I sit down on the mattress/sleeping bag and pat the seat next to me. He sits down, his huge body warming mine just with how close he is. We’re not touching, but I can feel his hand is close to mine. I can see his profile from the corner of my eyes: his strong jaw, sexy-ass lips, and spiky black lashes. He is too beautiful. I have no idea how it’s even biologically possible to look like he does.

I’m left thinking about his strawberry blonde. And her long legs.

Her lips.

Her breasts.

And whether or not he slept with her.

“I bet she made you a great girlfriend,” I whisper.

He looks at me, his eyes sparkling. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You just kiss.”

“Exactly.” God, he’s teasing me again.

And I’m one big throbbing nerve of want and obsession.

I wonder. About those kisses he gives. I’ve read quite a bit on it, actually. His activities. Day, morning, and night, four women a day sometimes. And why not? Sexual energy courses through his veins. His body hums with it.

“Is it true you only sleep four times, tops, with a woman because your favorite number is four . . . ? ”

“I eat babies, too.”

“Malcolm! Serious.”

“Do you waste all this energy thinking about me?”

I blink.

“Do you?”

“No,” I say. “In fact, I’m super tired after just two minutes of trying to figure you out.”

“Don’t try to figure me out,” he helpfully suggests.

I tear open a package of marshmallows. I turn around and see him lying back on his elbow, watching me curiously.

I take out a marshmallow and place it in his hand. I pop one in my mouth. “It’s for eating?” I tease him. He laughs because my voice is muffled by the huge marshmallow. I laugh too and he pops the marshmallow I gave him into his mouth.

His lips. His mouth . . .

Lust slams into me like a train at full speed, and I’m suddenly trying to think of anything but how close we are.

The voices are dying down outside, and it’s already dark. The wind rustles the trees and I yawn.

“You’re tired?” I lie on my side and face Malcolm, who’s looking down at me with a look in his eyes I can’t describe as he waits for me to answer.

“Yeah . . . I think it’s lights out for me.” I look behind me at the sleeping bag and then back at him.

The air seems to shift and I clear my throat, stuffing another marshmallow in my mouth.

Am I supposed to put on my PJs now? Should I just get into the sleeping bag and sleep? What if he doesn’t want to sleep yet?

My questions halt when Malcolm unbuttons his shirt and throws it across the tent.

The next thing my eyes see are miles of tanned, muscular chest and a tight six-pack.

He takes off his shoes but leaves his pants on. His back muscles ripple as he turns his back to me and settles into his sleeping bag. The night is hot as it is, but Malcolm Saint shirtless makes me feel like I’m in some kind of sauna.

He gestures to his sleeping bag; he wants me to join him. This realization makes my heartbeat almost triple in speed, and I can feel my stomach start to flip with excitement. Or maybe fear. Or maybe anxiety. But I mean, what did I expect when he said he wanted the tent for both of us? I don’t know. All I do know is that I feel like the next in line to ride a big-ass roller coaster, and I want to get on, I’ve been waiting for it for a while, but I can’t seem to move. I want to stay in line a little longer. Except this big-ass roller coaster has his hands hooked behind his head and is looking at me with such a penetrating stare, I actually get an adrenaline rush.

I breathe deep and walk to my bag, untie the strap of my halter dress, and slowly slide it down my body until I’m left in my bra and panties. I reach down in my bag and put on my big cotton sleeping shirt. Malcolm is still looking at me, inviting me to come into his sleeping bag. I pad over in my bare feet, feeling the grass softly crunch underneath the tent floor.

He opens the flap of the sleeping bag. I slip in, making sure there’s some distance between us, because I don’t want to seem eager. I settle into the surprisingly comfortable sleeping bag, looking up at the ceiling. I can hear soft chatter outside. The crickets chirping. The wind rustling the leaves. And I can feel Malcolm’s body beside me. His heat. His cologne. I don’t dare look at him because I know that if I do, anything can happen. We’re surrounded by a couple dozen people, but inside our little tent, our little bubble, there is just me and him. No one else. And that scares the crap out of me.

Just then I feel Malcolm shift, and his hand makes its way across my stomach, to my waist, and he draws me up against him until my back is to his chest.

Holy shit, I’m spooning him. Or he’s spooning me. Holy shit.

I focus on breathing. The back of my head is tucked beneath his chin, and I can feel his chest expand with every breath. His heat flows through my cotton T-shirt, warming my stomach and back. His face is so close to mine, if I turn around my lips will touch his.

I nervously move my arm to cover his, and he turns his hand to intertwine our fingers.

All I can hear is my heart banging in my chest and my pulse ringing in my ears. Just being around him makes me lose myself. He makes me feel a thousand different things, so I snuggle a little closer to him, the daredevil that I am, telling myself there’s nothing wrong with wanting a little warmth. Even though it’s not that cool in here. He nuzzles my head, tightens his hold on me, and places a little kiss on the top of my head. The feeling I get when he does that is indescribable. I feel butterflies in my stomach, and my throat tightens. I want to turn around and wrap my arms around him, and I want to kiss him, because feeling his huge chest against me makes me crazy. He is enveloping me completely, holding me in his arms, his big, strong, warm arms. Being drawn against his chest, having his arm hold me against him. It’s the safest I’ve ever felt.

I crack my eyes open, hearing voices outside. I hear movement, some laughter, and the sunlight is shining through the tent’s ceiling.

The tent’s ceiling.

Malcolm Saint’s tent’s ceiling.

Malcolm Saint, who’s currently lying beneath me.

HOOOOLY SHIT.

My arm is thrown across his chest, and my head is settled in the crook of his shoulder.

My leg is thrown across his body, resting between his legs.

What the hell is wrong with me? Holy crap.