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“We could have sex?” she breathed, lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

An involuntary groan escaped me.

Holy fuck did I want that more than anything. But she must have sensed the way that I stiffened. Or maybe this woman was as observant as I knew she was, and maybe she could see the battle that I was fighting inside.

Because yes, I wanted to sink back into her, over and over again. I wanted to hear her cry my name. I wanted to feel those sharp nails rip down my back as she moaned against my neck. But I couldn’t trust myself around her.

I couldn’t trust that I wouldn’t want to keep fucking her for the rest of my life. And that just wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t on the cards for us. Not when her family was trying to destroy mine. And not when my family was trying to end hers forever.

There was nothing here that wasn’t dangerous.

Those lust-filled eyes of hers shifted into something a little more playful.

“We could watch Netflix?” she arched a brow.

I frowned, my arms still caging her against the wall.

This chick wanted to fucking Netflix and Chill right now? While my logical brain was losing a brutal battle against my over-excited cock?

Zarina smirked, reaching up and tracing her hands up from my forearms and up the curves of my biceps. I knew she was probably having the same conflicted thoughts that I was, but if she kept touching me like that, we would both lose.

“Fine.” I pulled away from her touch, stalking towards the couch to put some immediate space between us before I ended up fucking her against the wall.

I plopped down on her soft, cloudlike couch with a grunt, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. Zarina climbed over me, snatching the remote from my hands.

“This ismyhouse,” she reminded, laying down at the corner of the L-shaped couch and thankfully keeping at least a little space between us. She kicked off her shoes and stretched out, resting her legs on my lap instead as she scrolled through the many options available on the streaming service.

“Uh, can we at least have a vote?” I slapped lightly at her leg as she hit ‘continue’ on a half-watched episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. She ignored me though, getting comfortable and dragging a mass of pillows toward herself and ‘subtly’ hiding the remote under one of them.

I groaned loudly now, hoping that she would acknowledge my protest.

She didn’t.

I thought momentarily about getting up and leaving, but I knew that I was shit-talking even myself. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not with her legs draped over mine, and the way that her face shifted with each emotion that the show drew from her.

Zarina didn’t seem to have a poker face.

I mostly watched her during the first episode, noting how she would smile when she thought something was nice, or funny, how she would frown and pout when she didn’t agree, how she would raise her brows and stiffen if she was surprised.

“Why doesn’t she just leave him?” I asked about halfway through the second episode.

“Wait, which one is she?” I asked five minutes later.

“I thought that she was with the other dude?

“Who’s this guy?”

“That dress is fucking ugly.”

“What is?—”

Zarina cut my question off by throwing one of her too large pillows.

“Just watch and you’ll fucking find out!” she snapped.

At some point, Zarina had got up and changed into a matching set of pale pink pyjamas. The shorts barely covered her ass cheeks, and I stayed fixated on the show in order to stop myself from flipping her over so I could bite down on one.

She settled back into her end of the couch, and by the fifth episode I forgot that time was passing.