Page 22 of Make the Play

My fingers trace over the curve of her jaw, slide down the slope of her neck, over that pulse point that drives me insane, and I thread them into her hair.

So soft. Silky. Too easy to touch.

Zoe goes still, and that’s when I know I’ve fucked up. I pull back before I crush myself even more. Because this is not what happens during a one-night stand. Not when it’s meaningless, when we’rejust getting it out of our systems.

“Get some sleep, Zo.”

She pauses, those soulful, cinnamon eyes lingering on mine for a moment before she exhales through her nose, closing them as she turns away from me.

“Night, Walton.”

I watch her for a second too long, open my mouth to say something more, to tell her this is not over. Tell her I’m ready to go again, or we could do no strings, keep it casual,anythingthat would afford me more of her. But I close it again.

Because all of those things? They’re not what I want.

And we both fucking know it.

Chapter six

Abort. Abort. Abort.

Zoe

Warmth.

It’s the first thing I notice.

Not the deep, soul-scorching exhaustion curling in my muscles. Not the dull ache between my legs, or how dry my mouth is from too many martinis last night. Not even the unfamiliar weight of a heavy arm slung over my waist, fingers curled over my hip like they belong there.

It’s the warmth.

The ridiculously comforting kind. The kind that sinks deep into your skin and makes you want to linger, to have just a little more. The kind that makes you want to stay.

It’s peaceful, until reality dawns on me.

My eyes snap open, and I clock the unfamiliar ceiling first. The luxury hotel sheets against my skin. The very real, very naked man wrapped around me.

No. No, no, no, no.

I slept here. I fuckingslepthere. With Chase Walton, a twenty-five-year-old walking PR disaster with the maturity of a Golden Retriever and a frontal lobe that hasn’t finished developing.

My pulse spikes, panic rising so fast I nearly choke on it.

Chase shifts behind me, arm tightening around my waist, pulling me back against him like we do this all the damn time.

I go completely still, pretending I’m not hyper aware of the heat of Chase Walton’s bare skin against my back. Or the weight of his arm across my waist, or his very obvious morning wood pressed against my ass.

I am going to die. At the very least, I need to get the fuck out of here.

Lifting his wrist carefully, I slide out from under his arm with the precision of someone dismantling a goddamn bomb.

If I can just get my dress, get my shoes, getout—

The second my feet hit the floor, Chase exhales sleepily. It would be an adorable sound if it wasn’t coming from the same man I let do unspeakable things to me last night with his tongue and his magical dick. The same man who drives me fucking insane and is largely responsible for the nervous twitch in my eyeball most days.

“Mm, hi, sweetheart.” His voice is still rough with sleep. “I’d say good morning, but you look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

My soul leaves my body and

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