“You don’t have to say things like that. This doesn’t count, remember?”
“And if I want it to?”
“Come over here” is all she says. There’s a small tremor in her voice as she reaches out, slips her fingers under the band of my underwear, and drags me close. I shuffle forward. She might as well just take me for a walk. I’ll follow her anywhere. She meets my eyes, then runs her hand once over my throbbing cock. There’s already a bead of precum staining the front of my underwear.
My eyes shut on a sharp hiss when her hand slips beneath the fabric and grips me.
“Fuck, Iz.”
Her head falls against my chest, as her palm pumps up and down, until I can’t take it anymore, and step out of my underwear. I guide us both back into the walk-in glass shower and turn on the faucet.
“You said five,” she murmurs.
I spin her so her ass is pressed back against me, my hand between her legs. I draw slow circles as the warm water washes over us. When she trembles, I pull her tighter against me.
“I keep my promises, Izzy.”
She cries out, clutching onto me as she falls apart for a second time. “We weren’t supposed to…”
My hand traces up her body, over every curve, until I turnher in my arms and cup her face. “Rules are meant to be broken sometimes.”
Hell, I’ve already broken every one of mine for her.
Then she drops to her knees and peeks up at me. “I keep mine too.”
Sunlight hits me, warm across my face, and for one disorienting second, I’m sure I dreamed it.
Izzy Sinclair in my bed, her thigh slung over mine, her dark hair spilling across my pillow, here in my life in Boston. Not pretend.
Then she makes a soft, drowsy sound beside me, and my cock twitches like a traitor.
Definitely not a dream.
I ease out from under her, tug on some sweatpants, and carefully creep out so I don’t wake her. Somehow, I manage scrambled eggs that are only slightly rubbery, bagels burnt, and coffee that’s passable at best. We’ll stop at Dunks later to make up for it.
She’s blinking awake when I step into the bedroom, sheets pulled to her chest, hair a glorious disaster.
“Morning, Sinclair.” I set the tray across her lap with a flourish. “Breakfast in bed. A pro fake-boyfriend move.”
She squints. “You cooked?”
“Well, an attempt was made.”
Her smile is still slow and sleepy. She bites into a bagel, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs around her next bite.
“And?” I lean my thigh against the mattress.
She huffs a laugh and shifts, the blanket slippingjust enough to remind me she’s very, very naked under there. Her mouth curves. “How’s my lipstick?”
I choke on my coffee. “Remarkably unsmudged, all things considered. We could try again.”
She leans back on the pillows, eyes glinting. “When’s practice?”
Fuck. I’m already hard again.
I set the mug aside, lift the tray off her lap, crawl over her until she’s laughing against my mouth. The food nearly topples, but she doesn’t care, and neither do I. My hand slides under the sheets, down her thigh, and when she gasps, I grin against her neck.
