"Like what you see?"
She's not even pretending to look away. "Yes."
The way she says it makes something in my chest crack. Because she has no clue what she does to me. No idea that every time she looks at me like that, another thread of my control snaps.
I kill the lights and slide into bed, keeping a deliberate distance. "Sleep."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by soft breathing. I'm painfully aware of every breath, every shift, every whisper of sheets. My skin stretches taut, itching to crawl toward her heat without my permission.
"Caleb?"
Her whisper cuts through the dark, and my fingers curl into the sheets. "Yeah?"
"Do you ever think about it?"
My heart kicks against my ribs. "About what?"
"About us. About what it would be like."
"Ivy . . ."
"Because I do." She shifts closer. "Think about it. Think about kissing you. How you'd feel—"
"Stop." But my body's already betraying me, blood rushing south as she presses against my side.
"What if I don't want to stop?"
Her palm finds my chest in the dark, and every rational thought evaporates as her fingerstrail lower.
"This isn't you," I manage, catching her wrist before those wandering touches can destroy what's left of my sanity.
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."
"Trust me, I—" But the words die as she shifts, throwing one leg over my hips until she's straddling me.
"Still want me to stop?" She rolls her hips experimentally.
"Fuck." My hands find her thighs on instinct, torn between dragging her closer and pushing her away. "Ivy."
"Please." She breathes it against my mouth.
Screw it.
I snap like a fucking rubber band, surging up to crush my mouth against hers. My fingers twist in her hair, grip tight enough to make her gasp. She opens for me instantly, and the first slide of her tongue against mine has my brain fracturing into static.
She tastes like champagne, and impending catastrophe. Like every red flag I should've heeded but couldn't resist, and now I'm mainlining her like a drug.
"Fuck, babe." The word fractures as she rolls her hips in a slow figure eight, the heat of her core blazing through thin cotton. My hands slide up to grip her waist as she experiments with angles that have my vision spotting.
She shifts forward, changing the pressure and making us both moan. The new position lets her drag herself along my full length, and the heat soaking through the layers leaves no doubt how wet she is.
When she rocks back, then eases in again slower, my hips buck up involuntarily.
She's lethal. Sharp nails scoring my chest, teeth finding my pulse point, body moving like she's studied exactly how to break me. I grip her ass, guiding her movements until we find a rhythm that has her gasping my name.
Each roll of her hips gets more deliberate. When she leans back, bracing her hands on my thighs, the view nearly kills me—my shirt riding up her stomach, her head tipping toward the ceiling, grinding against me while she chases her own pleasure.
"Look at you." My hands grip her tighter, guiding each motion. The new angle drags her clit right over my cock, and the sound she makes ruin me.
