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 isdyingto 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.
Intendingbeing 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. Definitelynotstaring 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’tmeanto.
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.
