She leans in, chest flush to mine. Her mouth finds my neck, and when she bites down on my shoulder, my hips jerk up.
"Touch me."
My hands move on instinct, rough palms sliding beneath the fabric to trace skin I used to think I'd never get to touch like this. She arches, and I cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over tight, perfect nipples that make her moan.
"That's it," I growl, as she grinds down harder, thighs trembling. "Show me how much you need it."
"Yes," she keens. "God, I want you."
"You can't just say shit like that." My entire body tightens and I tip my head back with a low groan.
"Caleb,please."
I'm going to come. Going to lose it in my boxers. I’m seconds away from total nuclear meltdown, and I don't even care because she's saying my name like it's salvation and my brain's completely offline.
"Fuck—don't stop—don't you dare fucking stop—"
She hiccups.
And it's like slamming into a wall.
The spell shatters, and blood rushes from my dick to my heart so fast I might pass out.
What the fuck am I doing?
"Stop." My hands find her hips, holding her still even though every part of me is screaming not to. "We can't."
Her eyes flutter open, glazed andconfused. "But I want—"
"You're wasted." Self-loathing rises like bile. "And I'm not. I can't be that guy. Not with you."
She jerks away. "Not withme?" Her voice cracks. "But you can be that guy with every other girl who throws herself at you?"
"Ivy—"
"No." She slides off me, and the loss leaves a hollow that shouldn't ache this much. "I thought after this week, after everything . . ." Her laugh comes out hollow. "I'm such an idiot."
"You're drunk. You don't actually want—"
"Don't tell me what I want." Her voice wavers, caught between hurt and anger.
"We're drunk," I say flatly, like that explains everything. "This isn't . . . we're not thinking straight."
She's quiet for a long moment. "Right." The word comes out small. "Because this would be such a terrible mistake."
Ivy rolls away, taking all the warmth with her, and the six inches between us might as well be the Grand fucking Canyon.
Her breathing's uneven, and I press the heel of my hand to my eyes.
Shit.
Tomorrow, she'll wake up with a hangover and laugh it off, blame the champagne, tell me we're good. I'll bring her coffee with three sugars. She'll share her muffin without asking. We'll slide back into our rhythm like we didn't just set fire to the rulebook.
It’ll be fine. It has to be.
If I act normal, she will too.
My head is adeath metal concert trapped in a tin can, and my tongue's been mummified in sandpaper. The first coherent thought that breaks through the hangover haze ispain. The second isCaleb—because his scent is everywhere, and my body remembers exactly why before my brain catches up.
