Opening my eyes is a tactical error. A pink flamingo tattoo on her upper thigh peeks out from beneath the hem of my shirt.Otis, according to the cursive script beneath its long, elegant neck.
When the hell did Holly get a tattoo? In that ocean of tequila she mentioned last night? And why a flamingo named Otis?
The smug little bird appears to be holding a martini glass, balancing on one leg like he’s trying to pass a field sobriety test.
The urge to trace it with my tongue bull-rushes me. Before I can think better of it, my lips part. Military discipline and my commitment to the bro code crumbles in the face of one tiny pink bird strutting across her skin like he owns the damn place.
Nice and slow, I stretch my neck and settle my mouth over her warm skin.
My lips tingle with my feather-light exploration of a part of her I was never meant to see.
Who the hell is this Holly? The one with named tattoos and fuck-me socks designed to keep a man’s cock locked and loaded.
And don’t even get me started on the glasses.
Blood surges through my veins faster with every stolen brush of my lips.
My best friend’s annoying little sister turns the casual act of enjoying a ring pop so sexy it has the ability to ignite a whole new fetish powerful enough to become the top search term on Pornhub.
My eyes sink shut as I fight the urge to dig my fingers into her flesh.
The strong woman who embraces her fears and turns them into bullets of pure determination to take on her father without flinching?
Darting out the tip of my tongue just far enough to get a tortuous taste, I choke back the groan clawing its way up my throat.
The obnoxious little sister who used to trail after us with scraped knees and determination has evolved into something far more dangerous.
Brave and strong with secret tender spots I want to discover.
And protect.
Nick never should have been worried about me fucking his little sister... he should have worried about this.
My cock throbs painfully, punishing me for denying him the relief of grinding against the valley of her spine.
Mumbling sleepily, her fingers trail over my hair and settle along the back of my head as she tugs me closer in her sleep.
Heat crawls over my skin. The jagged sound of my choppy breaths pound in my skull.
Her grip tightens, and with unexpected strength, she shoves my head deep between her legs as she sighs, mumbles, and shifts repeatedly on the mattress.
Cotton underwear brush against my nose, a dangerously thin barrier between my promises and the intoxicating warmth I want to get lost in.
A sleep growl of frustration slips from her lips. “Get in there, dammit.”
Ummmmm, what?
Another growl rumbles from her this one full of sleepy frustration. Her thighs flex and tighten. Remarkably strong yet delicate fingers lock onto my ears.
S—O—fucking—S.
What started out as quite possibly the single most erotic wake-up of my life is a fight for survival under the very real threat of suffocation—fuck.
"I like it rough as much as the next guy…“ The words come out strangled as her legs squeeze tighter. "But maybe we should discuss consent first."
Rambling something unintelligible, she rolls her hips, clearly still deep in whatever dream that has her grinding against my face.
Her scent hits me, heady and undeniable, threading through my senses—a mix of warmth and something that feels like an invitation.
