Aldo Moretta was curled behind her like a bear. His shirt was off. His wallet, keys, and cell phone were neatly lined up on her ottoman. His prosthetic leg was tucked in the corner at the end of the couch.

She felt the broad barrel of his chest rise against her back.

A riot of emotions erupted inside her.

He’d stayed. He’d stayed, listened to her word vomit, watched the sappiest of sappy movies with her, and held her when she needed a friend. A boyfriend.

Her heart limped slowly in her chest. Aldo Moretta was a real man.

She peeled her other eye open, lamenting through sticky mascara the fact that she hadn’t washed her face before passing out on him. She should get up. Wash her face. Maybe start breakfast? What was the proper breakfast-related thank you for being a good friend? Waffles. Although given the physique that she was sprawled against, he’d probably prefer something egg-whitey and chock full of vegetables.

She’d make both. And strong coffee.

Another soft snore behind her. Damn it. Snoring wasn’t cute. Yet the soft whistle from between Aldo’s delectable lips was having the same effect on her as a litter of puppies. She shifted slowly as not to wake him and studied him.

His lashes were thick, inky. Delicious stubble graced his jaw. His shoulders were barn-door broad, his chest wide and strong. He’d lost the gaunt shadows he’d returned home with, she noted.

She let her gaze slide over his pecs, noting the tattoos that covered his chest and part of his ribs. A tribal warrior, she thought. Enjoying a peek at his abs. Real people didn’t have six packs. But Aldo Moretta was no mere mortal. The waistband of his shorts rode low, revealing the Calvin Klein branding on his underwear.

Gloria felt a quickening inside her. She tried to shove it aside. To ignore it. But Aldo chose that moment to rock against her in his sleep, and she felt every inch of what she knew, first-hand, up-close, with visual confirmation, was a spectacular penis.

Oh. My. God.

She couldn’t help herself. It was simple biology that had her cuddling her hips closer to him. He gave a little sigh and flexed against her again.

Was she this starved for physical contact that she was considering taking advantage of Aldo’s morning wood that likely had nothing to do with her?

Slow. Slow. Slow. She chanted it to herself. They were taking things slowly. But the word did nothing to alleviate the dull throb between her thighs. She wanted him. Like puddle of lust wanted him.

She tried to peek farther under the blanket to the leg he’d hidden from her and then stopped herself.

They’d talked about her scars last night. But he hadn’t opened up about his own to her. Until he did, his injury was his business.

She relaxed against him.