I huff. “You can’t wear my boxers and tell me to relax.”
Her eyes gleam. “Why not?”
“Because it’s…” I clear my throat. “Distracting.”
Her smile turns slow and smug. “Good.”
She scoots closer until her thigh presses against mine under the blanket, warm and deliberate. She doesn't look at me—just turns her attention back to the movie like she’s innocent.
I try to focus. I do.
For about thirty seconds.
Then she shifts, stretching her arms over her head with an exaggerated little arch that presses her body against mine.
My breath catches.
Sloane lets out a soft sigh like she’s comfortable, then does it again—another “stretch,” another slow slide of her hips that is absolutely not accidental.
I go still. My hands tighten around the remote.
Sloane keeps her eyes on the screen, mouth twitching.
“You okay?” she asks sweetly.
I swallow hard. “Mm-hmm.”
She shifts again—slow, subtle, the kind of movement that makes my entire body light up.
My jaw clenches.
“My hamstrings are tight,” she says innocently.
I let out a humorless laugh. “You play basketball. Your hamstrings have never been tight.”
She finally looks at me, eyes wide and wicked. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
“Yes.”
She hums, then—without breaking eye contact—does one more slow “stretch,” her hips rolling just enough that I see stars.
I exhale through my nose, trying to find my last shred of self-control.
And then I lean closer, voice low, rough around the edges.
“If you keep doing that,” I murmur, “we’re gonna have to pause the movie.”
Sloane’s smile turns slow and satisfied, like she’s been waiting for me to say it.
“Okay,” she whispers, eyes flicking down to my mouth.
And I hit pause.
37
LOGAN
The silence that follows is heavy with intent.
