"Holy crap—!" I gasp, half laughing, half choking as I shove the can back at Zach.
He's already doubled over, wheezing between laughs. "You're still terrible at this! Some things never change!"
"Shut up!" I try to glare but end up laughing harder, smearing cream from my chin. "Kleenex, please!"
He reaches over my nightstand, still laughing, fumbling around the cluttered surface. I swipe a bit of whipped cream off my fingers, instinctively licking it off—because hey, waste not, want not.
The laughter stops.
I glance over my shoulder, confused. "What? Did you find it or—"
Zach's just... staring.
His eyes linger on my fingers as I suck the last remnants of cream from them. His throat works as he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like he's trying to choke down something far thicker than spit.
I cock my head to the side, one finger still lingering in my mouth, and look at him. "Zach?" I ask, my voice muffled around my digit. "You okay?"
He doesn't answer. Not at first. His jaw has gone slack, his eyes dark and hooded, locked on my mouth.
His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and his hands clench and unclench at his sides like he's fighting the urge to do something reckless.
He blinks, coughs once, clears his throat like he's swallowed wrong. "I—uh—yeah, I should... probably... go."
I blink, pulling my finger from my mouth with a softpop. "What? Why?"
My gaze drops instinctively, and that's when I see it—the unmistakable tenting of Zach's sweatpants, the fabric stretched taut over the hard, throbbing outline of his shaft.
My eyes widen, my mouth forming a perfect "O" of shock.
"Oh my god!" I squeak, my hands flying up to cover my face. "Zach! What the—"
I peek through my fingers, my cheeks burning, but I can't help it.
My eyes flick downward again, taking in the sheer size of him, the way his cock strains against the fabric, throbbing visibly with every heartbeat.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite the lingering sweetness of the cream.
He follows my gaze, his face flushing a deep, mortified crimson.
"Fuck!" he curses, scrambling to his feet and grabbing a pillow to hold in front of himself like a makeshift shield. "I'm sorry! I—I don't know what happened! I swear, I didn't mean to—"
And before I can say another word, he mumbles a quick, "Night, Sugar Plum!" and practically sprints toward the balcony.
The glass door slides shut behind him, leaving me blinking after his retreating figure.
I blink once. Twice.
"OH. MY. GOD! Did that just—"
Outside, I swear I hear him mutter a low "shit" before the night swallows the sound.
I let out a strangled squeak and dive face-first into my bed, muffling the sound against my pillow. My whole body feels like it's on fire—cheeks hot, pulse hammering so hard it might shake the mattress.
CHAPTER thirty-four
CAROLINE
The moment I step out of my room, the smell hits me—freshly brewed coffee, warm and nutty, wrapping around me like a cozy hug. Then comes the rest—turkey bacon sizzling, fluffy omelets, and avocado toast.
