The cotton brushing my nose is damp, teasing me with proof that whatever’s happening in her dream has her completely undone.
Holy hell.
My brain scrambles, caught between the heat rolling off her and the way her hips shift in some instinctive, maddening rhythm. It’s a wake-up call I’ll never forget, one I’m not sure I’d survive twice.
At the first opportunity, I slip from a grip fit for the WWE, but the damage is done.
Her warmth, the soft little sounds she makes—they're burned into my brain like sensitive Intel I’ll never be able to delete—just like the classified details of her fears, her dreams, and everything she's fighting for.
That Holly, who let her guard down, seems worlds away from the one who's about to wake up.
Rolling onto her back, she flings an arm over her eyes. My shirt parts with her movement, revealing flushed skin and a hint of the curve of her breast that has me reaching for my phone and capturing this glimpse of her.
Just to torment Nick. That's all.
But seeing her like this—relaxed, soft, those damn striped socks still clinging to her thighs like some kind of candy cane fantasy come to life—does something to my chest I'm not ready to examine.
The early morning light catches on her tumbled hair, revealing spun copper strands threaded through the waves.
I focus on her slightly parted lips bringing me back to how they looked wrapped around her ring pop, followed by the soft, sticky sound of it popping free, leaving the wet shimmer of cherry sweetness smeared on her pink, edible—Mission abort. Mission fucking abort.
I should delete the photo. My thumb hovers over the garbage icon, my chest heaving as two opposing versions of me battle for control.
A better man would delete it, but I can’t.
Grasping for normalcy and solid ground, I shoot the image to Nick.
Me
Rise and shine, fucker. Sleep good?
I hope he didn’t. If I suffer, he suffers. We go down together. I follow up with every phallic emoji I can think of—a few of them highly questionable. The flashlight looks like a fleshlight and the crossing swords are—whatever, doesn’t matter—let him choke on his coffee over that one.
I escape to the safety of the shower before I can analyze my life choices any further. But even scalding water can't wash away the details carving into my memory, rewriting everything I thought I knew about little Holly McAdams.
Twenty minutes later, what should be a normal tooth-brushing routine, is a direct assault on my gums. Frustration fuels my most basic movements… until my eyes lock on a scrap of white cotton panties.
Painted across the back in delicate cursive—"Am I more than you bargained for yet?"—complete with fucking antlers, like some kind of battle cry.
Eyes front. Keep brushing.
And there, right next to this modern declaration of war, a whisper of white lace masquerading as a bra. The two pieces mock me from their perch on the robe hook.
No amount of military discipline could stop me from surrendering to Holly’s unintentional act of psychological warfare.
Not exactly the way I planned to go out—from DEFCON five to leveled-by-panties asking the exact question I'm too afraid to answer.
Yeah, Squirt. You're way more than I bargained for.
"Undisclosed fetish I should have known before I shared a bed with you?"
Jumping at the sound of her voice, I choke, setting off a frantic struggle to avoid the dubious honor of being the first person taken down by toothpaste.
She leans against the doorframe waiting out my struggle amusement curving her lips.
Meanwhile, despite my possible imminent death, I continue fondling her underwear like some hormone-driven recruit who doesn’t know his way around a clit.
And I definitely know my way around a clit.
