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He tosses a shirt with his college name across the chest.

“Lend?”

“Tomorrow it’ll become my favorite shirt, and I will definitely need it back.”

He steps closer. His hand comes to my cheek, fingers threading into my hair, and then his mouth is on mine.

The warmth I’ve been carrying low in my belly spreads through my whole body.

I kiss him back hard, sliding my hands up his chest and around his neck, pulling him closer until there’s barely any space left between us.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine.

“No pressure,” he says, his breathing as uneven as mine. “I mean it. I just wanna be close to you.”

“I want that too.”

There’s no hesitation in the words. I want him. I want this.

So when he takes my hand, I lace my fingers through his and follow him into the bedroom.

Pickles has already relocated to his bed in the corner. He’s dead to the world, one paw twitching through some dream.

I toss Wyatt’s shirt onto the chair for later and climb onto the bed.

Wyatt lies down beside me and reaches over to turn off the bedside lamp. The room goes dark, and for a few seconds, neither of us moves.

I can hear him breathing beside me. I can feel the heat of his body even with the small space between us, and suddenly, I’m tired of waiting for him to make the first move.

So I roll onto my side and kiss him.

Wyatt makes a surprised sound against my mouth before his hand finds my waist and pulls me closer.

Kissing him here, lying together in his bed, feels different. More intimate. Like we both know where this could go.

We’re facing each other when Wyatt’s hand slides down my thigh. He lifts my leg and drapes it over his, opening my body to his in a way that makes my breath catch. Suddenly, there’s almost no space between us.

"Quinn." He catches my wrist gently, thumb pressing against the inside where my pulse is going wild. "Do you want to touch me?"

His voice is low, rough with a thread of restraint that makes my heart slam against my ribs.

I’ve touched him before in fleeting moments, but something about being here in his bed, with only the darkness and Pickles' soft snoring as witnesses, makes it feel weighted differently. Like crossing a threshold I can't uncross.

"Yes," I whisper, the word scraping against the back of my throat.

I don't wait for him to guide me. I take him at his word, slide my hand tentatively under his shirt until my palm finds the solid warmth of his chest. His heart is pounding just as hard as mine.

His breath hitches when my fingers trail over his ribs and hook into the waistband of his shorts.

I slide my hand down, working past the waistband of both his shorts and his boxer briefs. The movement brings my palm directly against the thick, hard line of him. He’s completely rigid, pulsing and hot, smooth skin slick with pre-cum.

Wyatt lets out a sharp, guttural sound.

I wrap my fingers around him, closing my grip with a deliberate, steady pressure. I stroke down his length, feeling the thick ridge of his veins and the rigid pulse hammering right against my skin.

The quiet, helpless shudder that runs through his entire frame sends a wave of power straight to my chest.

"Enough," he chokes out, his voice a gravelly rasp.