"Oh, just wait." Her breath skates across my neck, and my cock twitches in betrayal. "It gets so much worse."
An hour in, I've learned to fear approximately seventeen new everyday objects, but the real threat is her shifting closer every few minutes, completely unaware. She stretches and her shirt rides up, exposing a pale line of waist that makes my mouth water. When she settles back, her ass grazes my thigh, and my fingers dig into my leg to keep from grabbing her.
"See?" She gestures at the screen, where someone just got obliterated by a chain of events involving a garbage truck and barbed wire. "This is why I always check my rearview mirror like fifty times. Death gets creative."
"That's not even—how would that even—physics doesn't work that way!"
"Tell that to Death." She turns toward me, cheeks flushed pink, and I swear she realizes how close we are because her breath catches. For one dangerous moment, we're frozen like that, heat building between us until the air hangs heavy with it. She jerks back, tucking her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. "You know what's funny? The writer got the idea when . . ." Her voice trails off in a yawn.
"Don't you dare fall asleep," I warn. "You can't leave me alone with this chaos."
"M'not sleeping." She blinks hard, trying to focus. "Just resting my eyes."
"Sure. That's what you said duringAnnabelle, and you drooled on my shoulder."
"Did not." She pouts, and dammit, my eyes lock onto that bottom lip before I even realize what I'm doing.
Five minutes later, her head drops to my shoulder and her hair brushes my neck, her chest rising and falling softly against my arm. My whole body hums with awareness. Because after last night's shower fantasy, even the smallest touch crackles with tension.
She makes this soft, sleepy sound that's been haunting my dreams, and burrows closer. Her hand finds my thigh, fingers curling into my sweats as if she's claiming territory, and my blood runs hot. Because this isn't like all those other times—legs draped over mine during movie marathons, casual touches that meant nothing. This time, every point of contact burns. This time, I'm hyperaware that there's nothing casual about the way my body responds to her.
Fuck it.
I reach for the remote, clicking off the TV. The room plunges into darkness and Ivy stirsas I move to get up.
"Stay," she mumbles, fingers catching my wrist. Her grip is sleep-clumsy but insistent. "Warm."
That one word demolishes every defense I've built. "Just getting comfortable, Shortcake." My voice comes out rough. "Not going anywhere."
I strip down to my boxers, aware of her presence even in the dark. When I slide back into bed, she immediately gravitates toward me like I'm magnetic north, and she's been waiting to find true direction.
Her warm skin molds against mine, and my cock throbs in approval. But it's different than the desperate need from the shower. This is slow-burning ache that begs me to take my time. To memorize every inch of her while she trusts me enough to sleep in my arms.
I let my hand drift to her hip, thumb stroking the strip of skin where her shirt's ridden up. She sighs and presses closer, leg hooking over mine. My fingers sketch lazy circles on her thigh, goosebumps chasing every touch.
"Caleb," she breathes.
Her hand splays across my chest, right over my hammering heart, and I wonder if she can feel how much I want her. I brush hair from her face, earning a soft sigh.
She nuzzles into my neck, lips grazing skin, and every muscle in my body locks. "This is nice," she murmurs and it nearly undoes me.
My eyes grow heavy as the night deepens, but I stay awake to have a few more minutes of this. Of Ivy soft and warm in my arms, of letting myself imagine what it would be like if this wasn't just for tonight.
Tomorrow, I'll hate myself for crossing this line. But right now, nothing else matters except how perfect this is. How right.
How goddamn inevitable.
I stumble backward, narrowlyavoiding a bouquet that whizzes past my head like a floral missile. As it turns out, roses make excellent weapons. And why are there actual thorns on these things?
"Eyes on the prize, sugar!" Kristal's voice rings out. She's perched on a platform in head-to-toe pink camo, somehow making combat gear look like a fashion statement. "This isn't just a game, people—this is about LOVE!"
It's Tuesday morning at the Thistlewood Estate, where "family bonding activities" have officially devolved intoThe Hunger Games: Wedding Edition,staged by a five-foot-nothing wedding planner who moonlights as a drill sergeant.
I duck another bouquet, this one hurled with alarming precision by Magnolia. Who knew Sarah's mom had an arm like that? Then again, who could've predicted any of this when Kristal gathered us after breakfast, split us into teams through "random" selection—though I have serious doubts about how random it actuallywas—and announced we'd be spending the day "building connections through friendly competition."
Friendly.Right.
"Remember," Kristal trills, "we're making MEMORIES! Now move those booties like you mean it!"
