Page 81 of All Twerk, No Play

I flushed with embarrassment at long gray hairs sticking to my chest. Oh my god, he’d touched me like this? And I hadn’t noticed to clean myself off?

But before I could apologize, he teased, “Unless you’re into that …”

“You think I’m a furry?”

He lifted a shoulder as his washcloth moved down my body to wipe between my legs, which could have felt awkward, him touching there in a non-sexual way … but I just felt cared for. “It’s not my thing but if you’re into it, I’m open to discussion.”

My jaw dropped at his complete acceptance about … anything. “Sounds like we found something on my fantasy list that isn’t on yours.”

His eyes bulged, then I burst into laughter. His mouth lifted into that irresistible smile.

“Now get that fine ass into my bed, I’m tired,” I said as he slid under the sheets. I rolled to rest my head on his chest. “If you talk in your sleep, you’re banished to the couch.”

I passed out to the rumble of his laughter under my head.

"Use Me," Bill Withers

Cruz

She’dfallenasleepimmediately,draped over me like a weighted blanket. Those copper strands spread over my chest like a living flame, her face soft and peaceful, so different from the harsh angles that she projected to the world. Even though my arm was numb, I laid completely still, mind spinning with the unexpected turn the night had taken.

She'd stood at the foyer window with cautious optimism. When her phone buzzed, her shoulders slumped when that asshole ghosted her. At the restaurant, her back went rigid when she realized he was married.

And she let the prick off the hook, which made my skin crawl. Especially since she’d been cheated on before—that she’d been fuckingmarried. If she’d started dating Alex a decade ago, she was divorced by my age. How was that possible?

Her reaction had ignited a protective surge, showing him she wasn’t home crying big alligator tears over his lying ass.

During that first song, she fixated on my fingers on the frets, absentmindedly twirling the strands of hair I’d twisted, recrossing her legs. So I’d taken a gamble: publicly serenading a woman miles out of my league …

God, that would have been a nightmare if she'd shut me down.

But I’d ended up in her bed, waking up with her breasts pressed into my chest and her leg wrapped over mine. I dozed off and on as she snored into my neck, dead to the world. Even though I had to pee like a racehorse, I didn't move, wanting Victoria as close as possible.

This position kicked off many of those fantasies I told her last night—though I only shared the dirty parts. It felt safer to stick to sex than to share the parts that surprised me with their sweetness.

Ever since that morning I’d made her breakfast, I’d been dreaming about her moan of pleasure when her lips wrapped around a fork full of my food. Her arms around my neck dancing around her kitchen. Even her cat curled up on my chest headbutting me to demand chin rubs.

I dreamed those domestic scenes, her waking up in my arms before wrapping her hand around my cock, her eating my food then dropping to her knees …

But I couldn’t tell her those fantasies. Most times I didn’t acknowledge them to myself, knowing I’d never get them.

God, I had it bad for Victoria Blackstone.

I shouldn’t, though. This was just sex. I’d lucked into the rebound. I didn’t belong with her, just like I didn’t belong in this lavish apartment. Dreaming about domestic bliss was downright masochistic.

I found myself wishing, in a perverse way, that the sex had been awful. If she’d laid there bored then dismissed me with a limp farewell handshake, maybe I could get over this stupid crush and walk away unaffected, like so many times before.

But of course, she had to be fuckingincrediblein bed: willing, playful, and honest. So mind-blowing when she came, screaming my fucking name no less … and then, like it couldn’t get any better: She laughed.

I’d pushed her harder than I should have. She’d been ready to pass out after the second orgasm, but I hadn’t wanted to be done. Hell, even after we’d had sex, I had to stop myself from flipping her onto her knees and going again, knowing it might be my one chance. Sure, she’d suggested another night, but I didn’t know if she’d write this off as a one-time mistake. Or worse, maybe she’d wake up, realize how far she'd fallen in a moment of weakness, and kick me out.

And annoyingly, my idiotic crush was worse than ever.

Dawn was breaking out the window, light rain tapping on her window panes. Boot camp attendance would be down, but I’d run workouts in worse weather.

My phone rested on the nightstand—that nightstand I’d built wondering what she’d fill it with, expecting maybe a little rabbit or wand only to discover that she had a treasure trove of sex toys.

Usually I used my phone alarm to escape a woman’s bed with the excuse of teaching morning boot camp. That’s what I should do, for self-preservation: slide out from under her arm, kiss her forehead while she’s still groggy, and get out before she hit me with that withering stare. I mentally plotted where she’d stripped off my clothes to make a smooth break.

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