Page 64 of Dream Chaser
“Take my wallet, black card, order Sydney’s whole damn shop.”
She snorts and drops her head back on my shoulder, laughter shaking through both of us. I wrap my arm tighter around her waist and look up at the ceiling like it might explain how the hell this girl—reluctant as hell—just knocked every last ounce of sense out of me.
That’s when I hear it.
A grumble. A low, old-man huff.
We both turn our heads just enough to spot Wile judging us from the hallway like we just desecrated the Ross family crest.
Iz lifts a brow. “I think we just scandalized your newest fan.”
“He’s not even blinking,” I whisper, a little shocked.
“He’s plotting.”
I grin, running my palm lazily down her spine. “I think he’s more disappointed than mad. Like he expected better positioning or a throw pillow.”
“Please don’t say the words ‘throw pillow’ in this post-orgasm haze.”
“Fair,” I say, voice low as I press a kiss to her temple. “But for the record, if I’m going to scandalize anyone, I’m glad it was with you.”
Her fingers trail across my chest. “Damn right.”
I reach down and squeeze her ass. “Got snacks?”
Chapter 15
Post O
Izzy
Idon’t panic often. Not the freeze-in-place kind, at least. But lying here, bare as sin and tangled up with Griffon Skinner on a half-unpacked throw rug, and a traumatized Wile watching, I realize something important.
I have no snacks.
No chips. No pretzels. No chocolate stashed in a drawer or emergency trail mix hidden in a sock drawer. The fridge? Just bottles of water, not even a jar of questionable pickles. My pantry? There’s nothing here. Nothing edible. Nothing host-like. Nothing that says, “I am a functioning adult who planned to have a post-O man in my space.”
And worse—he’s rubbing my lower back like I didn’t just shatter into a thousand delicious pieces five minutes ago, and my brain is screaming something close todanger, danger. Not because of the sex—we covered that. It’s not a big deal … I mean, it is good—no, great sex.Finally.I’m stressing because I’m … unprepared.
I sit up fast, covering my chest with the nearest hoodie, and blurt out, “I don’t have anything. Like food. Drinks. Nothing.”
Skinner props himself up on one elbow, those moss-green eyes blinking at me in amusement. “Izzy Ross isn’t prepared for a post-O charcuterie picnic?”
I blink at him. “Don’t say post-O like that’s a normal phrase.”
He smirks. “It is now. Post-O. Like hangry, but hornier. Horgy.”
I groan and faceplant into my hoodie. “Please leave.”
He chuckles, stands up, starts tugging on his jeans. “I probably should.”
That makes me whip around. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” he says, grabbing his wallet off the floor. “A man whose entire nervous system just got scrambled starts thinking real unhinged shit when he’s alsohorgy. Dangerous combo. I’m gonna go before I say something insane, like asking if you want to decorate a Christmas tree together.”
I scowl, but he’s already pulling on his boots. He’s seriously leaving. I mean, that’s sticking to our … plan?
So we have a plan?
