Page 214 of Faking the Goal

"Hey." I lightly tap the back of her hand. "We're here."

She begins to stir beside me, rubbing at her eyes before blinking blearily out the windshield. A sleepy yawn escapes her as she slowly sits upright.

"...Did I fall asleep?" she asks, her voice rough with sleep.

"Like a baby," I tease.

She groans and stretches her arms over her head until I hear the faintest pop from her shoulders. "God..." Another yawn interrupts her. "I can't wait to crawl into bed, bury myself under my blanket, hug my pillow, and not move for the next... twelve hours."

I smile despite myself, but apparently my brain hears bed, blanket, and hug in the same sentence and immediately decides to fuck with me.

Because I don't picture her wrapped around a pillow.

I picture last night.

Taylor climbing on top of me with that drunken little smile, announcing that she was horny like she was informing me of something I desperately needed to know. Her hands going for her shirt. Her asking me to sleep with her, then arguing with every reason I gave her for why we couldn't like she was determined to wear down what little sanity I had left.

Then I picture this morning.

Taylor curled against me beneath the blankets, her cheek resting on my chest and one arm draped across my waist. She'd been so warm and soft, burrowing closer every few minutes in her sleep until there wasn't an inch of space left between us. I'd woken up before her and stayed exactly where I was, even though my arm had started going numb beneath her, because moving meant risking waking her up.

And I didn't want to.

I wanted another five minutes of her like that. Then another five after that.

Fuck, I would've stayed there all morning if she hadn't woken up.

The memory shifts to her hand moving over my bare chest, still half-asleep and convinced she was dreaming. The slow drag of her palm over my skin. Her fingers pressing into the muscle before giving it that sleepy little squeeze.

She had no fucking idea what she was doing to me.

I did.

That was the problem.

Lying there perfectly still while Taylor Lewis practically melted against me had required more restraint than anything I'd done in a long fucking time. Every instinct in me had wanted to roll her beneath me and kiss that sleepy little smile off her face, then keep kissing her until neither of us remembered why this thing between us was ever supposed to be fake in the first place.

And now, because apparently I'm incapable of leaving a dangerous thought alone, my mind gives me exactly that.

Taylor beneath me. Her arms around my neck. My mouth finding hers before trailing along her jaw, then lower, taking my time while her fingers disappear into my hair—

Jesus Christ.

Really?

This is where we're going?

I kill the thought before my imagination can make the situation any worse, shifting in my seat and staring determinedly through the windshield.

Fantastic.

She says pillow, and within thirty seconds I've mentally replaced it with myself and nearly forgotten we're sitting outside her fucking apartment.

At this rate, Taylor could tell me she's going home to fold laundry and my brain would probably find a way to make that about her being in my bed too.

I'm fucking hopeless.

I clear my throat a little too forcefully and stare out the windshield, willing every sinful thought to get the hell out of my head before I embarrass myself. Because this is not the time.