Because I was using Caelin’s chest as a pillow.
Shamelessly.
Aggressively, even.
My cheek was pressed against the solid warmth of him, one hand curled in the fabric of his shirt like I had gone to sleep trying to keep him there. His heartbeat was under my ear, slow and heavy and much too comforting for a man who had committed identity fraud as a dog.
And his arms were around me.
Both of them.
One arm banded across my lower back, the other curved over my shoulders, his hand tangled loosely in my hair as if even asleep he had decided I belonged exactly there and the rest of the universe could file a complaint.
Claiming me.
In his sleep.
Of course.
Of course the werewolf had restraint while awake and turned into a possessive blanket the second consciousness left the room.
His shirt
