Page 50 of On the Line

I don’t give her time to protest or tell me she can do it herself, and clean off her stomach while pressing kisses over the clean, damp skin.

“Thank you,” she says softly, the coyness back in her tone.

I give her a quick wink, the towel discarded on the bedside table. “Anything for my Jimbo.”

Her giggles are addictive as I lay back down beside her, pulling the covers over us, my body curling around hers.

James falls silent, and I can tell she’s busy having too many big thoughts. “Maybe I should go …” she says tentatively.

I squeeze her even closer and kiss her on the lips. “Who said friends can’t cuddle after sex?”

Fuck whatever rules she thinks she needs to abide by.

She gives me an amused eye roll and smiles.

Her nose burrows into my neck, followed by a long pleased sigh.

It’s answer enough.

A few minutes later, she falls back asleep and I stay awake watching her, already dreading her leaving my bed.

God, I’m fucked.

19

JAMES

It’s early afternoon by the time I wake back up. I’m snuggled into Ozzy’s side as if there isn’t any other place I’d rather be. A pang in my heart reminds me that this is temporary and I shouldn’t get too comfortable. I’m not special. Ozzy’s bound to move on to a new flavor of the month soon enough.

Although the way I catch him watching me sometimes—it's hard not to romanticize the look in his eyes, especially after what we did this morning.

God, that was … unreal.

And unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I can feel the twinge between my legs, I’m definitely sore, but it somehow only makes me crave Ozzy’s depravity even more.

Something about him just makes me want to stop caring about how I’m supposed to look or act while having sex, and just seek pleasure for what it is—carnal satisfaction.

Pure and wanton.

Peering up at him from my position, I find him sitting upright, leaning against the headboard, busy writing in the margins of a frayed book. It looks battered like it spent quite some time in the bottom of a backpack getting knocked around, masking tape all over the spine keeping it together.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Ozzy mutters softly, his gaze sliding to find mine, and the familiar curl to his lip makes my stomach flip.

Realizing I’m still naked under the covers, I push myself up, keeping the duvet wrapped tight against my chest as I rake my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to comb it into compliance. “Can’t believe I slept that long.”

“You probably needed it,” he says, sticking the pen into his open book and closing it.

“Didn’t mean to overstay my welcome,” I mutter sheepishly.

Ozzy’s eyebrows dip. “Who says you overstayed your welcome?”

“Well I just mean …”

I trail off, the earnestness in his expression feeling like a punch in the gut.

If he had wanted me gone he would have told me.

It slowly dawns on me that Ozzy is not Zachary.

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