“So, according to you, if your brother wasn’t in the picture, you’d already be under me right now?”
My breath stutters. I press back against the mattress like it might swallow me.
“I wouldn’t be anywhere near you,” I bite out, knowing it’s a lie.
“And where were you yesterday, Melody?”
I scoff with a roll of my eyes, doing my best to hide just how turned on I’ve been for the past five minutes.
He exhales a quiet, amused sound, then leans in just enough that his face is inches from mine.
“Your brother’s best friend,” he echoes. “Is that why you’re pressing your thighs together under the covers?”
“I need to pee,” I lie, feeling my cheeks get warmer.
He lets out a laugh and shakes his head.
“You know what?” I glare at him, shoving at his shoulder. “Out. Now.” I shove again, harder this time.
I’m trying really hard to keep whatever is left of my sanity, and him being in my bed is the worst possible way to do that.
“Jace.” I hiss it now, shoving harder. His body barely shifts under my push.
His laugh is deep and rich as I try to kick him out of the bed. The fact that he’s not even fazed by it makes me even angrier and… somehow aching even more.
He shifts. One second I’m pushing him, trying to win some pathetic power struggle with the actual Hulk, and the next, the room spins. Suddenly I’m flat on my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his massive body caging me in. His hands grab mine, pinning my wrists to the bed, one on either side of my head.
My stomach flips, my heart is a mess, and somehow my thighs are open and he’s between them.
Jace looks down at me, messy hair falling slightly over his forehead, eyes molten. His body is all heat and mass and power as he towers over me.
He watches me, gaze flicking to my lips, my neck, and the way my chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths beneath him.
“Still need to pee?” he whispers, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
I hate him. I hate how much I want him. I hate how right he feels on top of me.
“Jace,” I warn.
“Melody,” he echoes, dragging my name out like silk as he leans closer. “If you want me off you, you’re gonna have to try harder,” he says, still smiling.
“Pushing you wasn’t enough?” I breathe out.
“That barely counted as pushing,” he says, voice low. “You really want me gone?” He tilts his head. “Do something about it.”
He releases my hands and places them on either side of my head, watching me with challenge in his eyes.
I stare at him, studying his features. My eyes fall to the curve of his mouth, the cut of his jaw, the hard chest rising and falling above me—broad and solid, his shirt stretched tight over muscle.
I raise my hands and place them against his chest.
Push him.
But the moment my palms feel the hard muscle underneath them, I forget what the objective was. I can feel his heat, his strength, and his erratic heartbeat. His body feels like everything mine’s been searching for in the dark.
My fingers curl into his T-shirt, my knuckles tightening, telling myself to just push. Before I can regroup, his fingers come down and start stroking my hair. It’s such a gentle, unexpected thing that it throws me off guard completely. My eyes snap back to his as his hand keeps playing with my hair.
I clearly don’t have any control over my own body anymore, because my right hand automatically slides up his chest and hooks around the back of his neck. My left hand slides to the side and down his forearm, over the cords of muscle and the slightly raised skin where the ropes of veins slither. And I pull him down until his nose brushes mine.
