Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Couch it is,” I bite out. “Seems I have no choice.”
Georgia smirks. “Thanks, big bro. You’re the best.” My sister pauses. “Go grab what you need so I can go to sleep.” She yawns.
Right.
Go grab what I need…
“Am I allowed to brush my damn teeth?”
Permission granted.
I fetch a fresh pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a pillow, barely managing to grab my toothbrush before Georgia shoos me out like a grumpy little gremlin with boundary issues and a king-sized bed that doesn’t belong to her.
She closes the door with a smug little “Goodnight!” and then it’s just me and Poppy.
In the hallway.
Alone.
She’s leaning against the doorframe of her room, arms crossed over her chest, mouth twitching like she’s been holding in commentary for the past hour and a half and is dying to let it out.
“I’m going to kill her.” I exhale slowly. “Guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch.”
“You could always sleep in my bed,” my roommate offers, completely unfazed.
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
The thought of sleeping in the same bed with her begins doing crazy shit to my body.
She arches an eyebrow. “You’ve been lambasted by your sister enough—you could use a break. Plus, we’re already so far past any normal level of awkwardness, what's one more boundary to cross, right?”
True.
We’ve already crossed the line and honestly—is there any going back?
“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” I promise, intending to behave.
Intending being the key word.
Just because we’ve banged doesn’t mean she wants to bang again—especially not with my bratty younger sister asleep down the hall, a mere drywall panel away from hearing the downfall of my remaining self-control.
Poppy steps aside, holding the door open like this is no big deal. Like she hasn’t just invited me into her lady den wearing only a sassy smile and that sexy shirt.
“Come on,” she says. “I don’t bite.”
Liar.
She absolutely does.
She’s nipped at my skin more than once…
She tosses her purse onto the bed and turns to face me, hands on her hips. They go to her belt, fingers slowly undoing the buckle. Ever-so-slowly she slides it out of her belt loops, tossing it to the closet floor.
I watch, transfixed as she goes to the bathroom.
Leaves the door open enough for me to see her leaning into the shower to turn the water on.
I sit on the edge of the bed like a hostage. Hands in my lap. Eyes on the wall. Definitely not staring at the crack of light under the door like it might show me something illegal.
God, I’m going to need therapy once she moves out…
The sound of the water is taunting me now—mocking every last shred of my restraint. My brain is short-circuiting. My body is a full-blown riot. I’m one breath away from combusting.
I stand.
I don’t mean to.
It’s not a decision so much as a reflex. Like breathing. Like need.
Before I can overthink it—or think at all—I cross the room.
I push open the bathroom door.
The room’s thick with steam. Warm, heavy. And behind the glass, Poppy stands naked.
Naked.
Slick.
Facing me.
Arm above as she tilts her head, fingers in her hair as water sluices over her wet body. Every inch of her glowing like sin and salvation wrapped in one breathtakingly hot package.
She doesn’t move when she sees me.
Poppy is expecting me.
She’s not hiding. Not covering up.
She’s waiting.
I let the door swing shut behind me, exhale slowly, and meet her gaze.
“You didn’t close the door,” I explain.
Her smile is lazy. “I didn’t want to.”
Those four words are all it takes, and my restraint snaps like a live wire.
I take a step closer, chest tight, adrenaline pounding, the heat from the shower nothing compared to the heat rolling off my skin. I can’t tear my eyes off her—wet and wild and waiting like she knew I’d join her.
I reach for the hem of my dress shirt, dragging it up slow, watching her watch me. Her eyes track every movement. Wide, dark, lustful.
Shirt hits the floor.
Next, the jeans. I push them down, pulse hammering in my throat, anticipation curling in my gut like a fuse lit too close to the powder. Underwear. Dress socks.
Her eyes go to my cock.
Good.
Hope she’s still hungry.
I take a slow breath. Step into the steam.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, sealing us in.
One slow step forward and her arms are slipping around my neck, bare tits pressing against my chest, slick heat meeting muscle as she rises up on her toes, mouth so close to mine I can already taste her.
She kisses me—lips, water, breath, and need—as my hands slide between our bodies and up to her breasts. My thumbs brush over her nipples and she gasps against my mouth, nails biting into my shoulders like she needs something to hold on to.
Like I’m the only thing keeping her upright.
She’s not shy. Not with me.