In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Samara: Sure, what time? Also, I'm going to use this message as a sign from the Gods that I shouldn't meet with Caine to "talk" (¬_¬)
Reagan: Can you come now? No comment on the Caine thing.
Samara: Order me a coffee, I'm on my way.
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PARIS IS KISSING DOWN my neck, nipping at my collarbone, and I'm moaning, twisting, so hot I can hardly stand it. I grip his hair when his lips travel lower than my collarbone. “Oh God,” I whisper, eyes rolling in the back of my head, moaning so loudly I wake myself up. I jerk awake, sitting up in bed with my heart pounding and my breaths coming in quick pants. So wet, I feel it when my legs rub together. Great, now I'm having wet dreams about my roommate. My roommate, who doesn't even want me like that. My face burns when I remember how much of an idiot I made of myself in the kitchen last night. Maybe I read too much into his words because I essentially left him an open invitation and his silence was loud and clear. Well, message received. I bury my face in my hands and wince when pain zings through my right palm.
I'm such a fucking idiot. If I had heated the leftover food in the fridge like he told me to, I wouldn't be in this situation right now. And now I don't know how I'm going to face him again. I don't think I can face him again. Is it socially acceptable to walk around with a brown paper bag over your head? I get off my bed on slightly wobbly legs and make a beeline for the bathroom. I need a cold shower......and maybe a few minutes alone with the shower head.
My hand is hovering over the knob of the bathroom door when it swings open, steam trickling out. My eyes follow the steam as it drifts up and up, and then they widen. Oh, wow. Paris is standing in front of the door with only a towel wrapped around his waist and my eyes don't know where to look, so they look everywhere. His body is a complete mosaic. There are tattoos dripping off his shoulders, sweeping down his sides, and covering his stomach and chest. And the water droplets slipping down his abdomen and cascading over every divot of his toned stomach, makes my mouth go dry. “Sorry,” he mutters, and I should probably step to the side and let him pass, I should. But I don't step to the side, I don't move a single muscle.
“Reagan, love. Stop looking at me like that,”
“Like what?” I ask, my eyes finally meeting his. He tilts his head to look at me and for a second, I swear that he knows I've just had a dirty dream about him. He sucks in a harsh breath, folding his arms across his chest with conflict warring on his face.
“Like you want me to wrap your legs around my waist and kiss you up against the wall,” my breaths are coming so fast I'm almost dizzy. I look at him, his lips. Imagining them pressed against my own. All I can think about is how much I want him closer, how much I want his mouth on me. I've only ever kissed one person, and it was rushed and hurried and far too much saliva. “Do you want that, love? You want me to kiss you?”
