“I’ll survive.”
The stairs are narrow. She goes first, and I’m treated to an extremely detailed outline of her ass in that dress. My brain catalogs the information. The curve of her hips. The way the fabric shifts with each step. The fact that she’s probably wearing sensible underwear because she didn’t expect to end the night climbing stairs with a stranger.
Jesus Christ, I need to get control of myself.
We reach the fourth floor. She unlocks apartment 4D and steps inside, flipping on the lights.
The space is tiny. Maybe four hundred fifty square feet total, and that’s being generous. But it’s clean and organized. Books are stacked neatly on a small shelf. A desk by the window has color-coded folders. There are a few plants that are somehow still alive despite the limited sunlight.
“Bathroom’s through there.” She points to a door near the kitchen area. “Shoes off.”
I slip off my shoes then head for it, mostly because I actually do need to piss but also because it gives me a minute to figure out what the fuck I’m doing here.
The bathroom is exactly what I expected. Small, clean, with vintage pink tile that’s probably original to the building.
I lift the toilet seat, take a piss standing, then wash my hands and stare at myself in the mirror.
This is insane. I knowit’s insane.
Yet, that ass...
When I come out, she’s standing by the window with her arms crossed. She’s taken off her heels, which makes her shorter but somehow more grounded.
“Thank you,” I say. “For letting me use your bathroom and for not macing me.”
She taps one foot impatiently. “Not yet, anyway...”
I should leave.
I take three steps toward the door.
Then I stop.
Fuck it.
I turn back. “If I don’t kiss you right now, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”
Her eyes widen. For a second, I think she’s going to tell me to leave. Or use that pepper spray she mentioned earlier.
Instead, she lowers her arms. “Then stop talking.”
And she kisses me first.
3
Bree
The kiss doesn’t stop.
I mean it literally doesn’t stop.
We’re kissing and he’s backing me against the wall next to my pathetic excuse for an entryway and his hands are everywhere. My waist, my hips, sliding up my ribs to cup my breasts through the borrowed dress that Sora is going to kill me for wrinkling.
“Nico,” I breathe, and I’m not even sure if it’s a warning or permission.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes absolutely wrecked, and says, “Tell me to stop.”
There it is.
