“Are you going to join me?” Bristol grins and lifts her hips, sliding her leggings down, revealing a glimpse of skin.
I glance away, not because I want to, but because it feels like the right thing to do.
She’s drunk or, at the very least, tipsy.
I am not taking advantage of her.
Even if she throws herself at me.
Even if Bristol begs me to fuck her.
I won’t.
“That’s not a very good idea,” I say and clear my throat, the sound betraying me as it catches and sounds raspy.
Bristol is sexy as hell when she’s only wearing a jersey.
Too bad it’s not my jersey.
“Why do you have to wear that monstrosity?” I grumble, glaring at the Predators written across her chest.
“You don’t like it?” Bristol points at her chest. “Maybe you like what’s underneath?”
She lifts the hem of her jersey, and in one swift movement, it’s on the floor.
Her breasts are perky and gorgeous.
She isn’t even wearing a bra. The only layer of clothing nestled against her are the dark-ruby panties that are lace and see-through.
My cock twitches in my pants.
Now is not the time to get a hard-on for Bristol Greyson.
Never is about the right time, but I’m not doing something she’ll regret come morning and have the police at my door, labeling me a predator.
I spin around, doing everything I can to not stare at her gorgeous breasts or the perfect complexion of her skin, how she looks like an absolute goddess.
She’s the enemy.
The reminder doesn’t help my cock. It doesn’t seem to care who she is, only how sexy she looks right now.
I stalk across the room to her dresser, stumbling through the drawers, finding an oversized t-shirt and tossing it at her. “Put that on,” I grunt.
I swear I can hear the pout in her voice. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.” I exhale heavily and fold my arms across my chest. I run a hand through my hair. “Are you decent yet?”
“I’m always decent,” Bristol says, and I chance a glance over my shoulder as she’s wearing the t-shirt.
She slips under the covers, still sitting up in bed. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” Her hands wrestle under the blankets, and I give her a curious expression when she tosses those bare-thin red lace panties straight at my face.
I’m not expecting them or the fact that she’s half-naked in bed.
“You really don’t like me, do you?” Her bottom lip juts out in a pout, and I bite down on my own lip to avoid striding across the room and kissing her.
“I hate you.”
It’s a little white lie.
