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Except, I feel laughter creeping up my chest, too.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she finally pushes out.
“You’re not sorry.” Suppressing my own chuckles, I peel the sheet off my legs and toss it in her direction. It drapes over her pretty, perfect, annoying face.
She continues shaking her head from beneath the blanket, looking like a twitchy Casper the Ghost. “I don’t think it’s funny,” she promises, her words broken by her giggles.
Real convincing.
Finally, she untangles herself from the blanket and she flings it aside. Both of her hands reach for mine. “Come here.”
Her small hands clasp around my wrists, her fingertips not quite touching. Without my permission, my lips curl upward at the corners in amusement. “What are you doing?” I ask her.
She gets off the bed and stands in front of me, her feet planted on either side of my knees. “I’m helping you up,” she informs me, pulling with all her might.
My body doesn’t even budge.
She grunts. “Come on, dude. Don’t be deadweight.”
I don’t think she realizes the effect she has on me. Just the feeling of her fingers wrapped around my wrists sends electric jolts down my arms.
The tiny part of my brain that’s fully awake screams that I can’t let her touch me like this. Because with her hands on me, I won’t be able to control myself.
I laugh involuntarily, trying to wriggle my arms free. “You get an ‘A’ for effort but don’t bother.”
Interpreting that as a challenge, she only doubles her efforts. “I’m trying to help, Westbrook. Don’t be an ass.” She bares down and pulls me again. She’s really putting her back into it.
I roll my eyes, easily jerking my hands backward.
With the momentum, she tumbles forward, pitching into my arms. Her eyes are wide as her face comes hurtling toward mine, and on instinct, I fall backward to prevent a forehead-on-forehead collision.
In hindsight, that was probably a mistake.
Because Alana’s torso crashes into mine with a thud and we end up flat on the ground. Heaving chest to heaving chest. Me on my back. My ex-wife straddling me. Mere inches between our faces.
Her eyes are huge with shock, those blue irises shiny like crystal chandeliers. The startled breath that whooshes out of her lungs is warm against my lips, making me tingle.
Yes, I fucking tingle.
She hurriedly peels her upper body off of mine, shifting her weight backward. When she does that, she accidentally rolls her pussy over my wood, inadvertently aligning her pelvis with my own.
Swear to god—I see stars.
She feels my erection nestled in her valley and her back arches and my name gets stuck halfway up her throat. “Davis…”
I don’t know what I’m thinking. All I know is, out of nowhere, I’m gripping her hips, holding her on me.
She squirms, her ass grinding down, fitting my swollen cock perfectly into that heated space between her thighs. I close my eyes, hissing through my teeth.
Was that an accident? Did she do it on purpose? Is she deliberately rubbing her pussy on me right now? Hell—am I even awake? Or is this the most vivid wet dream of my life?
With her legs braced around my waist, Alana sits upright, giving me a spectacular view of her erect nipples tenting that thin T-shirt of hers. She arches her spine again and I can hardly keep from covering each of her breasts with my mouth. I drop my skull to the floor and groan.
She rocks her pelvis again. This time, there’s no fooling anybody. This isn’t an accident. It’s a goddamned choice.
My throbbing erection responds with a not-so-subtle jerk, nudging himself against her pussy.
I grip her waist—hard enough to leave a mark—and I drag my cock against her.
