Page 26

Peyton

Warmth. That's the first thing I register.

Then, the steady thump beneath my ear—a heartbeat.

My lashes flutter open, and confusion strikes. Where am I?

More pressingly, where are my clothes?

The comforter is cool against my bare skin. The towel... Oh no. I went to bed wrapped in it after a hot bath. I must have lost it during the night.

I blink slowly, my gaze traveling upward, pausing at the sight of a smooth, bare chest. Golden skin marked with a familiar tattoo—a memory from a photo he sent last week.

Hunter.

Oh God.

I’m on top of him. Not beside him. Not curled up on the edge of my own mattress like a civilized human. I'm straddling him.

One thigh slung over his. My body pressed half on top of him at his side. My breasts smashed against his rib cage. My hand spread across his tattooed pectoral like I’m staking some kind of claim.

The pillow wall is a managed mess. No longer straight and sturdy how I constructed it before I fell asleep.

And I’m naked. Every inch of me.

What the actual hell?

My brain spins. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is climbing into bed wrapped in my towel after a hot bath and too many late-night thoughts about a certain hockey player’s abs and him naked in the Hawkeyes’ locker room.

Did I move in my sleep? Did I crawl over the wall and drape myself over him like a human weighted blanket?

I steal a glance down.

He's still in his boxer briefs. His body is loose and warm beneath mine, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. One arm is tucked behind his head, the other draped at his side, nowhere near touching me. He didn't pull me over here. He didn't initiate any of this.

I did.

Mortification washes over me.

Worse—my thighs tighten at the memory of the dream I was having. The one where I was backed up against a locker room wall, no clothes between us, his mouth trailing down my body, his hands pinning mine high above my head.

And now... Now I'm pressed against his thigh. My core is still humming from the ghost of that dream.

Jesus. Did I...grind on him in my sleep?

Did he wake up at any point and feel me? Hear me?

My heart pounds harder. I'm going to die. That's it. Actual death by embarrassment. There will be no funeral. Just a closed casket and hushed whispers, like: She rode him unconscious and never recovered.

I try to shift off of him, slowly, carefully. But the second I move, he stirs beneath me, his muscles tightening. His breath catches.

And that's when I realize—I'm not the only one affected.

I freeze.

His chest shifts under mine. A low groan escapes him, like he's been yanked out of the best dream of his life—or, more likely, jolted into the worst reality.

I lift my head just enough to meet his bleary gaze.

He looks at me and grins.

"Good morning," he says, voice gravel-thick and teasing. "You’re on top of me. Did you miss me?"

Oh God.

"Um...good morning," I mumble, my voice raspy, my body still firmly pressed to his. If I push away right now, he'll see everything. "Did I..."

"Break over the pillow wall again to cuddle?" He cocks a brow. "Yes."

I bite my lip, bracing myself. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't." His grin turns wicked. "For God's sake, don't apologize. I'm a man, Peyton, and you're fucking gorgeous. You have an open invitation to come lay naked on top of me anytime you want. I'm also your fake boyfriend, which means I'm contractually obligated to let you use me like a body pillow."

I roll my eyes. "Hunter, this isn't a joke. We set boundaries—remember those?"

“From the looks of it, I’m not the one who forgot. Which has me confused,” he says, his tone playful. “Because you’ve been rubbing your tits and your wet pussy all over me for the past four hours since I got home.”

My mouth goes dry.

"Four hours? Since you got home?" My stomach drops—and then tightens with heat. "You were awake the entire time?"

"I tried to sleep," he says, "but you didn't make it easy."

Oh God.

“How long were you in bed before I climbed over the pillows?”

"It was less than fifteen minutes before you busted through the pillow wall like the Kool-Aid Man.”

I cover my face with one hand, the other still trapped between us. “Did I…say anything in my sleep?”

"No words," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, "but the sounds... Damn, Collins. Hottest thing I've ever heard."

I peek out from between my fingers. "What kind of sounds?"

"Like my thigh was giving you the best orgasm of your life."

I bury my face against his chest, and he chuckles.

"I can't believe I did that. Why didn't you wake me up and stop me? I practically forced myself on you," I say, finally glancing up to meet his eyes.

"I don't know. I didn't know what to do, but you seemed content lying on top of me. I didn't want to stop you. And trust me, you couldn't force yourself on me even if you wanted to. I'm twice your size. But from my end, it was all consensual, if that makes you feel any better," he teases.

I glance up and notice that one hand is still tucked behind his head and the other at his arm. "You're not touching me."

"I'm not,” he confirms. “I wouldn't—not without permission. You should know that I'd never cross the line you already set between us. Not unless you tell me I can."

I do. That's the worst part. I trust him, and yet can he say the same about me?

If the roles were reversed this situation would look a lot different.

His eyes flicker darker. He sucks in his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don’t remember,” I lie.

He chuckles, low and knowing. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Liar or not, I’m not telling you.”

“It was about me.” He says it like he already knows, and when I don’t answer, his gaze darkens. “Was it me in the dream?”

I look away. He lifts my chin with two fingers.

"Where were we?"

I swallow. "Locker room. I blame that picture you sent."

He licks his lips, his eyes darting to mine. "And what were we doing?"

"You had me naked, pressed against the locker room wall. My hands pinned over my head."

His breath catches, and he mumbles out something akin to “fuck.”

"Warning, Peyton," he says softly, and before I can protest, his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is soft at first—sweet, tentative. Then it deepens. His hand tangles in my hair. My fingers clutch his shoulders. His hips press up, and suddenly I'm not thinking anymore.

I'm feeling. I'm aching, desperately pulling him closer.

Then he moves.

An arm wraps behind me. One smooth shift and he's on top of me, nudging my legs apart with the heavy weight of his thigh. His cock presses between us, thick and hard beneath the thin cotton of his briefs. My breath hitches.

“I can make it better than the dream,” he says, lips brushing against my throat. “How bad are you aching for release, Peyton?”

“We have rules,” I say, but my objection is too weak for either of us to take seriously.

His mouth pulls back, and his green eyes find mine. Dilated and hungry for this as much as I am.

“You never said I can’t make you come with my fingers. Tell me yes and I’ll take care of you,” he says. “It’s painful how bad you need this, isn’t it?”

I nod, and then his mouth crashes back against mine, his right hand gently caressing down the side of my body.

His phone buzzes, but we both know that if he stops now and this moment is broken, this won’t happen again.

He ignores his phone, dips his hand between my legs, and I cry out when his thumb brushes over my clit.

And then—his phone rings again.

We both freeze.

“Maybe you should see who that is?” I say.

He growls in annoyance at the interruption, forehead dropping to mine. “And stop where this is going? Even if it were Everett Kauffman himself offering to triple my contract salary to take his call right now, it wouldn't be worth giving this up.”

I laugh, breathless. The thought that Hunter wants to touch me this bad has me enjoying every moment of this.

“You should check. Just in case.”

He sighs, pulling away just enough to reach the phone on the nightstand. His jaw clenches.

“It’s my agent. His text says 911.”

I blink. I know he’s worried about what kind of deal Bethany might be conjuring up with Everett Kauffman. “Take it.”

He hesitates. “You’ll still be here when I get back?”

No, of course not. We both know this is a bad idea, but I couldn’t tell him that or he won’t take the call.

I want him. I want his lips all over me and his fingers inside me, and I know that’s the last thing this complicated situation needs. Worst of all, my inability to stay on my side of the bed put us in this position.

“I don’t know,” I lie, though the destructive part of me wants a Hunter Reed-produced orgasm.

His eyes search mine, but I can tell he doesn’t completely believe me. “Just give me five minutes. Stay.”

I don’t say anything, but I can see that he’s feeling anxious to not miss his second call.

He climbs off me slowly, his body pulling away like we’re still magnetized together. Like it's taking every bit of his effort to pull apart from me.

The moment he steps out of bed, he gazes down at my bare body, the comforter pushed off from when he got up. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

I suck in my lower lip, trying not to squirm at him taking me in.

Then he slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call. And starts for the bedroom door. “Hey, Dale...yeah, I was in the middle of something. What’s up, can you make it fast?”

I watch carefully, eyeing how far it is from the bed to my nightstand with my vibrator in it. I need release so bad it almost hurts. Next, I eyeball the distance of the bathroom.

If I can get to my vibrator and then to the bathroom, I might be able to get this done before he even knows I’m gone.

It wouldn’t take long. I’m already on the edge from the wet dream and rubbing against Hunter for hours, and then him flipping me onto my back and rubbing himself between my thighs, his fingers playing with my clit. I’m on a hairpin trigger at this point.