shortcake | liskook

13

I crack open my eyes against the morning light and lazily blink them into focus, in no particular rush to start what I know is going to be another hellish day. 

My heart seizes in my chest as the blurred blob lying on the other side of the bed morphs into a half-naked Jungkook. 

Yep. Hellish. Sometimes I hate being right. 

He’s lying on his side, shirtless, his arm tucked under a pillow with his sleepy gaze fixed on me. I take in a sharp breath as a Pulp Fiction shot of adrenalin kickstarts my heart. 

He was totally watching me sleep. 

What’s worse than waking up in bed with someone creepily staring at you like a serial killer who enjoys a nice Chianti paired with liver and fava beans? When that someone is your mortal enemy and the recent subject of an earth-shattering sex dream. 

“Well, that’s not creepy,” I grumble. My voice sounds dull and groggy, unlike my mind which is starting to clear to something almost human. 

The last time I slept this hard, I was sixteen and under general anesthesia for an emergency appendectomy. 

I brace myself as the last few days come crashing against my skull like sober lightning flashes of a tequila-fueled Spring Break. I hold my breath and run my thumb over the back of my ring finger feeling the warm metal. It’s there. It all really happened. Just freaking fantastic. 

That’s it. From this moment on, no more letting my emotions get the best of me. No more hormone-crazed shenanigans— 

“What were you dreaming about?” Jungkook’s deep rumbly voice cuts through my ardent vow, straight down my throat, where it takes hold of my next breath. 

My eyes reluctantly meet his. There’s a mischievous glint in them that causes hot pinpricks to spread from the top of my head to my toes, putting even my pinkies on high alert. 

“You were talking in your sleep.” His lips hint at a smug grin that causes my stomach to drop and my pulse to spike. 

I want to say something cool, but I’m too distracted by how the morning sun has given his usually obsidian eyes a beautiful amber hew. Or maybe that’s how they always look when he’s not shooting someone a death glare. 

“I don’t know,” I lie, feeling my cheeks flame with the vivid dream of him doing impossible crafty things with his tongue on my most sensitive bits while somehow simultaneously thrusting inside me, sucking on my nipples, and biting my neck. 

I don’t have sex dreams often, but when I do, I go all out. 

I close my eyes against the memory, as if that’ll help, and raise the back of my hand to my mouth, stifling a non-existent yawn because that’s how I roll. 

“You said my name.” His grin widens, flashing white teeth set off by his dark beard. “Repeatedly,” he finishes like the cocky bastard he is. 

“It was a dream,” I grumble. 

“About me,” he says with a raised brow. 

“Jesus. It was a dream. Get over yourself.” I try for a haughty laugh, but it comes out sounding more like the final squawk of a dying bird. So much for not doing stupid shit. 

It was fun while it lasted. 

“A sex dream,” he clarifies as he shifts, causing the sheet to pool around his Adonis waist. “About me.” He props his head up with his hand like he’s waiting for me to tell him a bedtime story. 

Not going to happen. 

My skin feels tight and tingly. A faint high-pitched ringing sounds in my ears as my blood pressure rises like a tea kettle.