Page 72 of Bleacher Report
"Break over the pillow wall again to cuddle?" He cocks a brow. "Yes."
I bite my lip, bracing myself. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't." His grin turns wicked. "For God's sake, don't apologize. I'm a man, Peyton, and you're fucking gorgeous. You have an open invitation to come lay naked on top of me anytime you want. I'm also your fake boyfriend, which means I'm contractually obligated to let you use me like a body pillow."
I roll my eyes. "Hunter, this isn't a joke. We set boundaries—remember those?"
“From the looks of it, I’m not the one who forgot. Which has me confused,” he says, his tone playful. “Because you’ve beenrubbing your tits and your wet pussy all over me for the past four hours since I got home.”
My mouth goes dry.
"Four hours? Since you got home?" My stomach drops—and then tightens with heat. "You were awake the entire time?"
"I tried to sleep," he says, "but you didn't make it easy."
Oh God.
“How long were you in bed before I climbed over the pillows?”
"It was less than fifteen minutes before you busted through the pillow wall like the Kool-Aid Man.”
I cover my face with one hand, the other still trapped between us. “Did I…say anything in my sleep?”
"No words," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, "but the sounds... Damn, Collins. Hottest thing I've ever heard."
I peek out from between my fingers. "What kind of sounds?"
"Like my thigh was giving you the best orgasm of your life."
I bury my face against his chest, and he chuckles.
"I can't believe I did that. Why didn't you wake me up and stop me? I practically forced myself on you," I say, finally glancing up to meet his eyes.
"I don't know. I didn't know what to do, but you seemed content lying on top of me. I didn't want to stop you. And trust me, you couldn't force yourself on me even if you wanted to. I'm twice your size. But from my end, it was all consensual, if that makes you feel any better," he teases.
I glance up and notice that one hand is still tucked behind his head and the other at his arm. "You're not touching me."
"I'm not,” he confirms. “I wouldn't—not without permission. You should know that I'd never cross the line you already set between us. Not unless you tell me I can."
I do. That's the worst part. I trust him, and yet can he say the same about me?
If the roles were reversed this situation would look a lot different.
His eyes flicker darker. He sucks in his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. “What were you dreaming about?”
“I don’t remember,” I lie.
He chuckles, low and knowing. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Liar or not, I’m not telling you.”
“It was about me.” He says it like he already knows, and when I don’t answer, his gaze darkens. “Was it me in the dream?”
I look away. He lifts my chin with two fingers.
"Where were we?"
I swallow. "Locker room. I blame that picture you sent."
