Page 35 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

turner

. . .

D inner goes from bad to worse—from chill to personal, my sister has officially crossed all boundaries of propriety, and Poppy is not helping.

Not one bit.

She takes another sip of wine. Licks her glossy bottom lip. Smiles at me.

I nearly black out.

I’m sitting here pretending to care about entrees and steak temperature while my blood pressure is somewhere between "mild stroke" and "erupting volcano."

She’s so goddamn hot.

“Poppy does not need your help getting laid,” I push out, frustrated and glaring at the menu, embarrassment and guilt and lust coursing through my veins. I seriously wish she would change the subject but she’s like a dog with a damn bone.

“ Everyone needs help getting laid.” My sister laughs. “Including you.” She leans toward my roommate. “Did you know he was basically a virgin until he was in college?”

“Not true,” I grind out. “I just wasn’t telling my baby sister about my sex life.”

“Oh? I need to hear more about this!” Poppy enthuses, eyes wide and too gleeful for someone I wanted to fuck in my pool.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Yes,” she counters, matching my tone like this is a formal debate and not the worst dinner of my life.

Georgia grins like the little gremlin she is. “Okay, so he was seventeen, braces, shaggy hair—like, actual Bieber hair.”

“I didn’t have braces,” I snap. “And I did not look like Justin Bieber—what the hell is wrong with you?”

She’s being so annoying and embarrassing. She’s definitely doing this shit on purpose.

Poppy chokes on her wine, giggling at my sister.

I drop my head into my hands. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying,” Georgia continues. “Poor dude didn’t peak until, like, college. And even then, it was very much a slow build.”

“How the hell do you know?” I counter. “You were sixteen when I left.”

Once again, my sister ignores me. “He had this one hoodie he wore everywhere. Like, weddings. It had grease stains down the front to it.”

“It was sentimental, ” I snap.

“It was disgusting,” she says, looking at Poppy, then leaning in close. “In the time you’ve lived at the house, have you seen him do anything other than build LEGOs?”

Our eyes meet.

“No,” she confesses slowly, lips twitching like she knows I’m dying inside. “But he folds laundry with a level of precision I find deeply erotic.”

I stop breathing.

Georgia cackles. “I’m sorry, what? ”

Poppy shrugs, casual as hell, sipping her wine like she didn’t just set my entire internal system on fire. “I walked past the laundry room the other day and found him sorting his clothes. There’s just something about a man who knows how to do mundane household chores...”

Georgia thinks she’s hilarious, giggling like we’re at a damn comedy club—at my expense, by the way. “Folding socks is hot now?”

“Yes,” Poppy says emphatically. “And loading the dishwasher.” She fully leaning into the bit— or maybe not a bit at all —eyes locked on mine, mouth twitching like she’s having the time of her damn life. “I’ve never seen anyone load a utensil basket with such purpose.”

My dick twitches at the sight of her glossy lips and I force my eyes to stay on her face—and not stray to her tits.

“You are done,” I tell her.

My sister twitters. “Well. I know I speak for Stella and myself when I say we would love to see him settle down. If you have any friends who might make a good match—send them his way.”

After that dinner goes downhill.

I spend the remaining meal fending off the server’s advances, and at the same time listening to my sister and my roommate commiserate about love, dating, and sex. AS IF I WERE NOT SITTING HERE.

I can’t wait to get them in the car.

Can’t wait to get them inside the house.

We finally get the check—thank god —and I pay before Georgia can even pretend to reach for her wallet.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath.

“For the meal or the trauma?” Poppy asks sweetly.

“Both,” I grumble.

The drive home is mostly quiet, save for Georgia humming along to some overly dramatic breakup ballad on the radio, and Poppy occasionally giggling to herself like she’s replaying the greatest hits of my emotional collapse.

By the time we walk into the house, I feel like I’ve aged three years.

I lock the door behind us, kick off my shoes, and mutter, “Okay. Georgia, you taking the couch or the couch?”

She blinks at me. “Hard no.”

I pause. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs, dropping her bag onto the armchair like she owns the place. “I’m stealing your room. You have the perfect mattress, and the couch has no lumbar support. I’ve been driving all day, Turner. Be serious.”

She stretches with a yawn.

I stare at her. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Poppy makes a strangled sound that could be a cough or a laugh. Possibly both.

“You want me to sleep where exactly?” I ask. In my own house.

“Couch,” Georgia says simply. “Or your roommate’s bed. You two seem cozy, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.” She raises her eyebrows in a challenge and I’m suddenly terrified of this little monster.

“Couch it is,” I bite out. “Seems I have no choice.”

Georgia smirks. “Thanks, big bro. You’re the best.” My sister pauses. “Go grab what you need so I can go to sleep.” She yawns.

Right.

Go grab what I need…

“Am I allowed to brush my damn teeth?”

Permission granted.

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 is dying to 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.

Intending being 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. Definitely not staring 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’t mean to.

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.

I push open the bathroom door.

The room’s thick with steam. Warm, heavy. And behind the glass, Poppy stands naked.

Naked.

Slick.

Facing me.

Arm above as she tilts her head, fingers in her hair as water sluices over her wet body. Every inch of her glowing like sin and salvation wrapped in one breathtakingly hot package.

She doesn’t move when she sees me.

Poppy is expecting me.

She’s not hiding. Not covering up.

She’s waiting.

I let the door swing shut behind me, exhale slowly, and meet her gaze.

“You didn’t close the door,” I explain.

Her smile is lazy. “I didn’t want to.”

Those four words are all it takes, and my restraint snaps like a live wire.

I take a step closer, chest tight, adrenaline pounding, the heat from the shower nothing compared to the heat rolling off my skin. I can’t tear my eyes off her—wet and wild and waiting like she knew I’d join her.

I reach for the hem of my dress shirt, dragging it up slow, watching her watch me. Her eyes track every movement. Wide, dark, lustful.

Shirt hits the floor.

Next, the jeans. I push them down, pulse hammering in my throat, anticipation curling in my gut like a fuse lit too close to the powder. Underwear. Dress socks.

Her eyes go to my cock.

Good.

Hope she’s still hungry .

I take a slow breath. Step into the steam.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, sealing us in.

One slow step forward and her arms are slipping around my neck, bare tits pressing against my chest, slick heat meeting muscle as she rises up on her toes, mouth so close to mine I can already taste her.

She kisses me—lips, water, breath, and need —as my hands slide between our bodies and up to her breasts. My thumbs brush over her nipples and she gasps against my mouth, nails biting into my shoulders like she needs something to hold on to.

Like I’m the only thing keeping her upright.

She’s not shy. Not with me .

Not that I want her to be…

I want all of it—the way she melts into me, how her lips part like she’s tasting something sweeter than steam and water and heat. The way her body arches into my hands like we were made for this, for here , like she’s not afraid to let me feel how badly she wants me back.

My breath stutters as her mouth trails along my jaw, her voice a whisper against my skin. “You’re shaking.”

“No I’m not.”

She pulls back just far enough to look me in the eye, her smile pure trouble. “You are.”

Maybe I am. It’s possible. Because I’ve never wanted someone like this.

Fuck.

Is this love?

No.

There’s no fucking way—I’ve known her less than two weeks.

People do not fall in love that soon.

I rest my forehead against hers, trying to steady the thrum of anticipation that’s clawing through me. “Poppy…”

She blinks up at me, still breathless, still close. “Yeah?”

Ugh.

Shit.

“Nothing.”

Then I kiss her again, because I don’t know what else to do with myself. I press her back against the tile and drop to my knees. Spread her thighs with my hands, holding them apart.

Go straight for her pussy.

Sucking hard, worshipping her.

I lose myself in her.

Not just in the shape of her body or the heat of her skin—but in the way she responds to me. The way she whispers my name. The way her knees shake and her breath stutters, her voice getting caught somewhere in her chest before spilling out in broken syllables.

So fucking good…