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“And then?”

“And then you push upwards with everything you’ve got. Hips to the ceiling, then roll over that shoulder. Don’t just go sideways. Up and over.”

I heave. Absolutely nothing happens, except that I go extremely red.

“You’re trying to go sideways. Up first. Then over.”

We reset. I hold his arm tight against me, hook my foot around his ankle, then drive my hips towards the ceiling and twist towards the arm I’m holding. This time, he topples over onto his back. I roll with him and come up on my knees, then stare at him, astonished.

“I did it.”

“You did. But getting me off you is only half the job. The second you’re free, you move. Get away, get to safety.”

I hesitate, still up on my knees.

“Run, Briony.”

Oh. Right. I scramble up, but before I can get clear of him, his hand closes round my ankle.

“Keep your other foot planted. Turn the ankle towards my thumb and pull free.”

I do as I’m told, and it works.

“Good. Now, from the top, and I’ll no be talking you through it this time.”

So we go again from the beginning, him kneeling over me, which is no less mortifying the second time round. Wrist. Ankle. Hips up. Twist. He rolls with me, and I scramble clear of him and get to my feet.

Again, his hand catches my ankle before I’m out of reach. I turn my foot and pull, and it comes free—but I lose my balance. I wobble, hop, overcompensate, and the next thing I know I’m sitting down.

Directly onto Ryan Sloan’s face.

Leggings and cotton knickers. That is the entire inventory of what is between us.

I can feel the bridge of his nose. The warmth of his breath through the fabric.

For one appalling second, neither of us moves.

Then, from somewhere underneath me: “Well. That’s one way to disarm a guy.”

I scramble off him and retreat on my hands and knees. My whole body is one enormous blush.

“I am so sorry.” I can barely get it out. “Ryan, I’m—that was—I didn’t⁠—”

He props himself up on his elbows, looking thoroughly amused. I sit back on my heels and wish the floor would open and swallow me up.

Ryan’s hand goes down and he adjusts himself—one quick, unselfconscious tug at the front of his shorts.

I look. I don’t mean to, but I do.

Ryan Sloan is hard.

Oh.

Oh.

I wait for him to apologise, or pretend he needs to go get a glass of water, or turn away, or something.

He doesn’t do anything. He just sits there, leaning back on his elbows, watching me, making absolutely no attempt to hide the situation in his shorts.