I pat my body beneath the sheets.
Slow at first. Then faster.
Oh.
Oh my God.
I freeze.
Because there’s no version of this where I’m fully dressed… or even wearing socks.
I fight the urge to gasp. Or wrap myself in the sheet and sprint wildly for the bathroom. But the thought of making a noise, let alone moving, makes my head spin.
And Phoenix just keeps lying next to me like he belongs here. Like I do, too.
Nope.
Absolutely not. Abort mission.
I start to sit up and freeze.
Because I am very, very aware of my body. Of the way the sheet tangles around me. Of the heat still lingering between my thighs and the soreness that has nothing to do with the hangover.
My breath catches.
Oh.
Oh.
That answers that.
“We didn’t just get married, did we?” I whisper.
A low groan answers me. “Define ‘just,’” Phoenix mutters.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “This is bad.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Starting to get that.”
I risk another glance at him.
He lowers his arm slowly, blinking against the light. His gaze lands on me, sharpening.
“You okay?” he asks.
I laugh—too loud, too fast. “Define ‘okay.’”
His mouth twitches. Then his gaze drops. Just briefly.
But long enough. Heat rushes up my neck.
“Well, then,” I say quickly. “So. That happened.”
“Looks like it.”
I press my hands to my face.
“Tell me we at least made it upstairs before?—”
