Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The girl on his arm giggles, still clinging like she’s worried about falling into another dimension. “He said he was making grilled cheese,” she slurs, like that explains everything.
I throw my hands up. “At two in the morning?”
“Is there a bad time for grilled cheese?” Cash counters, like it’s the most profound question he’s ever asked. “We were looking for the kitchen. Took a wrong turn.”
The girl waves sleepily. “Nice to meet you,” she says to no one in particular. “I’m Paige!”
Welp, Paige is adorable.
Drunk and adorable.
They vanish.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
And then—Turner exhales. A long, slow, groggy breath, like the past ninety seconds were a dream he hasn’t fully woken from. His arm—still slung across the mattress—bends at the elbow and hooks around my waist.
Gently.
Casually.
Before I can fully process what’s happening, he’s tugging me toward him, rolling back into the mattress with a groan and taking me with him. My knee brushes his hip. My hand lands on his stomach.
Bare stomach.
Abs.
Warm, taut, sleep-soft.
Oh. Oh…
But Turner doesn’t say a word; doesn’t open his eyes.
His other hand slides beneath the blanket, finds my thigh like it’s done it a hundred times, and drapes across it lazily. He mumbles something that sounds like, “S’just me. Go to sleep,” nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck like we’ve done this a dozen nights before.
We fit.
I just let myself melt into the mattress and him, my cheek pressed against the curve of his chest, eyes wide open in the dark.
Palm skimming over his chest…
Across his rib cage…
Up and over again. Smooth collarbone.
Shoulder.
My fingers explore his curves in the dark until eventually, his large palm finds my wrist. Gently.
He doesn’t push me away.
Says nothing….
Just holds my hand against his chest, thumb brushing softly over my knuckles as if it soothes him.
It’s dangerous, this kind of closeness. This comfort that feels like it was years in the making—even though we barely know each other. Even though I can still count the number of days we’ve lived under the same roof on one hand.
His breathing shifts, just enough to make my own catch.
A slower inhale. A heavier exhale.
The muscles beneath my palm twitch, his chest rising in a new rhythm, less unconscious. Less sleep.
And then his thumb stills.
A pause.
Like he’s realizing where we are. How we’re tangled. The weight of my leg still draped over his.
I stay completely still, barely blinking, barely breathing. My skin burns with awareness. Every place we touch feels hotter than it should, like my nerves are dialing themselves up to full volume.
He doesn’t move his hand from mine.
But I feel it now, his awareness settling in, like he’s cataloguing the curve of my hip against his side. My knee hooked over his thigh. The dip of my waist where his arm could easily slide and hold—
He shifts slightly. Just barely. Just enough that the sheet slips lower on his hips and my breath stutters.
Then—
“Poppy,” he murmurs. His voice is scratchy and sleep-heavy, brushing the back of my neck like a secret.
My name on his voice does something to me I don’t want to examine.
“Hm?” I try to play it cool. Fail miserably. My voice comes out softer than intended, all breath and nerves.
There’s a beat of silence.
“You feel good.”
His forehead tips to mine—light, easy—so we’re sharing the same small pocket of air. His nose grazes my cheek, a careful nudge.
“You’re warm,” he adds, even softer now. Drowsy honesty. “Smell good, too.”
Welp. It’s official.
I’m done breathing.
I should pretend to be asleep. Pretend I didn’t hear that. Pretend I’m not absolutely melting inside this tank top that is very very is see-through. Why do I do this to myself?
His massive paw rests on my back now, sliding beneath my shirt.
Fingers splay wide, his hand is warm and heavy, settling between my shoulder blades before tracing the curve of my spine in a slow, absent circle.
My whole body goes taut.
Is this an accident? Is he dreaming?
Doesn’t feel like it…
He’s half-asleep. His breathing is even. Muscles loose. But that hand… surely that hand knows exactly what it’s doing.
And then, like gravity has opinions, he tugs me closer.
Pulls my body in so we’re spooning…
turner
. . .
My arm goes around Poppy’s waist.
She’s warm. Soft. Still.
My hand shifts on her stomach, thumb brushing a lazy circle against her skin. I tell myself I’m just comfortable. That this is about comfort. Warmth. Sleep.
Not want.
Definitely not need.
Then she makes a soft sound in her throat, some sleepy exhale of contentment, and my body answers before my brain has a chance to shut it down.
Don’t move your hand off her stomach, don’t move your hand off her stomach, don’t—
Too late.
I slide my palm lower. Just an inch.
Maybe two?
Enough to feel the curve of her hip, the bare skin there—warm, smooth, addictive.
My throat tightens as I drag my fingers back up, slow and deliberate, because I’m a fucking dumbass with zero impulse control and a growing list of regrets all beginning with her name.