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Tipping my head back to rest against the headboard, I press my tongue to the inside of my lip and gently curl my fingers in the thick mass of her black hair. Heat crawls up my chest and neck as arousal floods my stomach.

It’s wrong, completely uncalled for in the situation I’m in.

Yet as the memory of taking her clothes off comes barrelling in, I struggle to think of anything but the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen. Have ever dreamed of or imagined.

Muscled stomach and shoulders, curvy hips and thighs, and breasts the size of generous handfuls. I’d have had a much better chance of shoving my interest out of my mind in the bathroom, crouched in front of her, had I not pulled down her skirt.

It was intimate in a way that should have been terrifying. Something that should have taken place between lovers and not two people still getting to know one another. The brief moment outside of her room last week doesn’t come close to that.

And I wouldn’t take it back.

Not the feel of her skirt in my grip or the familiar sensation of lace panties scraping my skin. She was so hot it burned as I brought them both further and further down, until she was bare before me, all smooth, puffy skin that glistened in a way that threatened to undo me completely.

For a moment, I considered staying there forever, doing nothing more than staring at her from my place on the floor, her hand steady on my head like a guiding force.

My attention snaps to my lap when Bryce grows restless. With a turn of her head, her face is pushed between my thighs instead of on them. I hold as still as possible, muscles quivering with the strain of keeping them tense.

She lets out a soft noise and then slides her hand up my leg, over my knee and to the squishy part of my thigh. It disappears beneath the hem of my skater skirt, which has already risen on its own. She lingers only a couple of inches from my damp panties, and my pussy sings at the closeness, a sharp prick of desire following.

I swallow thickly and attempt to lift my thigh in hopes of pushing her head upward. Instead, she tightens her grip on it and stretches her arm out, encouraging my leg outward to create a much larger gap between them that she groans into.

“Bryce,” I squeak, all too aware of how bad it would be to allow her to do what I think she might be trying to do to me in her sleep.

In her sleep.

She probably thinks I’m someone else, and that’s more than enough of a reason for me to tug her carefully by the hair and repeat her name, louder this time.

Bryce jolts up and off my lap, the skin of my leg where herhand was growing ice-cold. “Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck?”

My body shakes with silent laughter at her outburst, and even though I can’t see her scowling at me, I know she is. Call it intuition.

“What’s wrong?” she asks hoarsely.

“Has anyone ever told you that you get touchy when you’re sleeping?”

Her hair whips around her face as she tries to stare at me in the dark. “What did I do?”

I scoot further down the bed now that she’s not on my lap. The relief in my back from the new position is instant.

“So, is that a yes?”

“Tell me what I did. If it was something that freaked you out?—”

“Are you hungry?”

She pauses, the confused scrunch of her features obvious, even with the lack of light. “No, I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Daisy, stop fucking with me,” she warns with a slight hiss.

I swallow a giggle. “I’m pretty sure you were five seconds away from trying to eat me for breakfast.”

Silence.

More silence.

Then, the crinkle of sheets as Bryce reaches behind her for a pillow and shoves it into her face. Her groan is so loud it’s hardly muffled.