My lids crack open, and sure enough, Legend’s swinging lazily on a chair too close to my bed, one boot propped on the edge of my mattress. Watching me. Like some kind of stalker with a death wish.
“You’re being creepy,” I grumble, voice thick with sleep.
The corner of his mouth tips, the expression one that makes my pulse kick despite the fog still clinging to my brain. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
I groan, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets—best part about being off the island, if you ask me—and yanking them up over my face. Maybe if I pretend hard enough, he’ll vanish. Or combust. Either works.
The sheets stop moving.
I blink into the fabric, confused, then I feel his weight. His fists press into the mattress on either side of me, caging me in. The heat of him bleeds through the thin barrier as he leans down,and suddenly the sheets are pulled away, his face hovering inches above mine.
His nose brushes over mine, and while it’s barely a touch, it’s enough to make my breath hitch.
“Get out of this bed,” he warns, voice low and rough, “before I end up in it.”
My lips twitch. “That won’t be so bad.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, playful and testing.
His eyes darken instantly. Heat floods them, molten and hungry, and I feel the answering pull low in my belly. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and from the way his gaze flicks down, he notices.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Or do something far more dangerous.
Instead, he pushes off the bed, standing abruptly. “Your first task today requires you all worked up and tense.”
I blink at him, thrown by the sudden shift. “What?”
“Get up.”
“I don’t want to get up,” I grumble, rolling onto my side and pulling the pillow closer. “Five more minutes.”
His hand moves before I can process it.
A press. Right against my clit through the thin fabric of my sleep shorts.
Electricity ignites through me, sharp and immediate. My hips lift slightly, involuntarily, and a gasp catches in my throat.
“Later.” His voice is gravel and promise. “We can get back to this shit later. But right now, you need to be worked nice and tight.”
He releases me, and the loss of contact is almost painful.
I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his head. He catches it mid-air, laughing—actually laughing—as he backs toward the door.
“Five minutes,” he warns, still grinning like the smug bastardhe is. “Downstairs. Don’t make me come back up here.”
He leaves and I stare at the ceiling, pulse racing, body still humming from that single, devastating touch. “Asshole,” I mutter to the empty room.
But I’m already swinging my legs out of bed.
Eight minutes later, I’m dressed. My body’s still buzzing, nerves alive and skin too sensitive, and I know that’s exactly what he wanted.
Worked up. Tense.
Bastard.
I hit the bottom of the foyer and freeze.
His eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate, and that smirk returns.
