"No, it's fine, I'll just . . ." She gestures vaguely toward the door, but not before a flicker of hurt flashes across her face. It's enough to make me want to shove Virginia off my lap and go after her.
Carter's gaze follows her out like she's wearing a neon sign that says FRESH MEAT. His tongue rolls out of his mouth, and my fingers itch to rearrange his face. Preferably with the nearest blunt object. But Virginia's trailing her lips on my neck, and I'm trapped in this ridiculous game we're all playing.
Matt catches my eye from his spot on the couch, smirking as if this is all going according to some master plan. The asshole shoved Virginia at me earlier with a not-so-subtle "show her a good time."
Jefferson's knuckles go white around his whiskey glass whenever Virginia lets out another breathy sound, and the room's so charged with unresolved drama, you could power the whole damn vineyard with it.
Virginia shifts in my lap, and this girl's got zero shame. Her hand slides up my thigh, fingertips trailing dangerous paths while she pretends to be invested in whatever's happening on the screen. She grinds down again, precise and deliberate, and my body's clearly as confused as I am about what we're doing here.
"Mmm," she hums, way too close to my ear, rolling her hips with an intent that sure as hell isn't about getting comfortable. "You feel good."
Except I don't feel anything. Not the way I should. Not the way I used to.
"You know what I think?" Virginia's hand creeps higher, andJesus Christ, is no one else seeing this? "We should find somewhere more private."
My body should be responding to this. Any normal guy would be half-hard by now with a gorgeous woman grinding on him. Instead, I feel . . . nothing. Like my dick's on strike until further notice.
"Jet lag," I shout, standing so fast Virginia almost face-plants into the carpet.
Matt's not even trying to hide his laughter anymore, the dick. Sarah elbows him, but he just grins wider.
Virginia pouts. "But the movie's not even halfway done."
"Tragedy," I mutter. "Truly devastating."
I'm already backing toward the door, looking like I'm fleeing a crime scene, which, considering what Virginia was about to do to me in front of everybody, isn't far off.
When I push open our room door, the hinges groan in protest. The room's dark except for moonlight filtering through those gauzy curtains, casting everything in silver and shadow. And there's Ivy, fast asleep in the middle of a massive mattress.
Shit. Right. The bed situation. Between Virginia's theatrics, and Matt's nonstop commentary, I forgot. Which leaves me with the couch. Technically furniture, functionally a torture device for anyone over six feet.
But I glance at the bed again, and suddenly the couch is the leastof my problems.
Ivy's stretched out like an offering, one leg kicked free of the tangled sheets, shirt rucked up so high it should be illegal. The black lace underwear peeks out and makes me swallow a groan.
Her blue hair's a wild mess against white pillows, and there's that little snore she always denies having, but I can't focus on anything except how the moonlight worships every curve. The soft dip of her waist. The perfect roundness of her ass. The endless expanse of bare thigh that my hands suddenly ache to grab.
I should look away. I'm going to look away. But my eyes are greedy bastards, drinking in every detail like I'm dying of thirst. The way her shirt's twisted up around her ribs, revealing a strip of pale stomach. The soft curve of her breast pressed against the mattress, and Jesus Christ, I can see the outline of her nipple through the thin fabric.
My hands shake with the need to touch. To wake her up with my mouth on her neck, to slide my fingers under that scrap of black lace while she gasps my name. The primal part of my brain wants to mark every inch of her skin.
Want slams through me with staggering force, my cock straining against my zipper, demanding attention. Ten minutes ago, Virginia was practically offering herself on a platter, and I felt dead inside. Now, one look at Ivy sleeping and I'm ready to combust. What the hell is wrong with me?
The room spins as if I've had too much whiskey, and I realize I've been holding my breath, terrified that one exhale could wake her. That she'd catch me staring; devouring her like some ravenous beast.
I brace my hands on the desk, eyes squeezed shut, forcing myself to forget the curve of her waist. But my body doesn't care. It craves what it shouldn't. I lurch into the bathroom, blood roaring in my ears. My skin burns, and there's only one name pounding through my head—hers. Ivy. Ivy.Fucking Ivy.
Steam erupts from the shower in a thick, volcanic cloud as I peel my shirt off, the damp fabric dragging across my back. Pants next.Boxers. I kick the whole mess into the corner, too far gone to care where anything lands.
The second the water hits me, I brace against the tile. One hand on the wall, the other on my cock, needy in a way I don't want to admit.
All I can see is Ivy.
The way she bites her lip when she's thinking. How she'd taste if I kissed her. How it would sound if she moaned my name.
"Fuck," I groan, the word echoing off marble.
I stroke harder, chasing release, and water sheets down my spine, tracing every nerve like a warning. The room fills with the slick rhythm of my hand, the pounding shower, my own desperate breathing.
