His scent. His mouth. The way he’d looked at me after ourpracticemake-out session, like I was a problem he wanted to study. Like he’d solved me and wanted to memorize the answer key.
God.
What evenwashe to me? Roommate? Emotional support blanket? Bad idea with excellent cheekbones? The reason my therapist was going to raise her rates?
Of course, just when I thought my brain was finally winding down, it tossed in a bonus round: Eric.
The ghost of relationships past. A familiar ache coiled low in my stomach. Was it regret? Grief? Humiliation? It didn’t matter. It lingered. I rolled over again, curling into a tighter ball.
The mattress dipped behind me, and a warmth settled next to me. My whole body froze. A breath later, I turned my head. Roman was there. Silent. Shirtless. His face inches from mine.
He didn’t say a word as he slid his arm around my waist and pulled me in like it was the most normal thing in the world and we did it every night. My leg hooked over his hip without permission. My body knew him already. Knew his shape, his heat. My heart slowed. My muscles unclenched. The restless energy fell silent.
His nose brushed the curve of my neck. He exhaled slowly, and Ishuddered. Goosebumps skated down my spine.
Then his mouth brushed the edge of my jaw—soft, reverent, like he thought I’d vanish if he kissed too hard.
I didn’t think. I didn’t plan.
Ilet him.
When our mouths met, the world tilted. His kiss was searching at first, careful. Then it deepened as he became more sure of himself. He slid one hand under my shirt, fingers skimming my ribs, my waist, branding every inch of skin with heat and desire.
I arched into him and dragged my fingers through his hair, my breath uneven and needy. Every cell in my body lit up. I could feel everything, feelhim. And for one wild, terrifying second, I thought it was real.
I blinked. A streak of gold across the wall. Sunlight.
I blinked again. I was in my room, alone in a cold, empty bed. I sat up so fast my head spun.
“Shit.” Just a dream. Just a vivid, heart-thudding, illegal-in-five-states kind of dream.
I threw back the blanket and stood on wobbly legs. “Ohno.”
My panties were soaked.
I clutched my chest and whisper-yelled at the ceiling. “Holy shit.”
I fanned my face like that would do anything for the situation I’d woken up in. Okay. Coffee. Immediate, scalding, reality-realigning coffee. Hair a disaster, still warm between my legs and completely mortified, I shuffled down the hall and turned the corner.
And there was Roman. Of course, he was shirtless and leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand like he was posing for a sleepwear ad in a magazine I definitely wasn’t allowed to subscribe to in high school.
His hair was tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed, eyes soft and bleary and golden. It was so damn unfair.
“Morning, Mags,” he said with a grin.
My brain collapsed. Not again. I wasn’t going to survive another day in this apartment with this man. Not afterthatdream. I swallowed hard and tried to look anywhere but his mouth. Or his chest. Or his stupidly attractive hands holding that mug.
“You made coffee?” I croaked.
He nodded as he straightened and held out the mug as a peace offering. “Felt like being nice. You looked tired last night.”
I took it without a word. Sipped. Scalded my tongue.
Worth it.
He leaned back against the counter, totally relaxed, totally unaware that I’d spent my night turning him into the plot of an erotic indie film.
My inner monologue clapped its hands and screamed:Cool cool cool. Pretend you didn’t dry-hump him in a dream like a Victorian boy seeing an ankle for the first time. Everything’s fine.
