He pulls back just enough to look at me. His brow furrows. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
Turner kisses me again, slower this time. Hot.
His palm glides over my boob. He squeezes—at the exact same time his tongue slides into my mouth and that’s when I make a sound I will deny to my grave…
The kind that gives me away.
Desire. Frustration.
“You’re killing me,” I breathe, dragging my mouth from his.
His eyes are hooded, cheeks flushed, voice wrecked. “Good.”
“You’re not allowed to be hotandemotionally manipulative. Pick one.”
“No,” he says, and kisses me again, rougher now, like he’s trying to undo every inch of distance I’ve tried to put between us.
I can feel how badly he doesn’t want this to end. The ache in his kiss. The way he presses me into the mattress, his dick straining against my thigh.
My breath catches.His mouth is still doing terrible, wonderful things to mine.
We are, without question, about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
And then?—
A polite knock on the doorframe.
“Sorry to interrupt,” comes the smooth, chipper voice of the leasing agent, “but I have brochures if you’re still considering submitting an application.”
We freeze.
Turner’s hand stills under my shirt. My leg half-wrapped around his. Both of us flushed and breathing like we’ve just run a marathon with our mouths.
He doesn’t move immediately. Just lifts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide whether to fake his own death.
I twist my neck to see her.
She’s holding a stack of glossy pamphlets and wearing a smile so calm, so practiced, it deserves an award.
No raised brows. No judgment.
Just the smug professionalism of a woman who’sabsolutelywalked in on worse.
“I’ll, uh…” Turner clears his throat and eases off me, adjusting his shirt like it personally betrayed him. “We were, uh?—”
“Testing the bed,” I offer quickly, cheeks on fire.
She nods. “Of course. Very popular feature.” The agent hands me the brochures. “You can take your time. Let me know if you have any questions. About the apartment.”
Turner doesn’t say anything. He exhales, long and heavy, running a hand through his hair like he wants to throw himself out the first-floor window.
We don’t speak the rest of the tour.
And when I get home, I text Nova.
Me: Do you have like 10 minutes for a mild spiral orrrr
Nova: Obviously. Call me.
