"I would rather sleep on your chest than a hundred pillows."
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I swear every bloody year it's chaos. But this year? This year it's war.
Midsummer at mine is supposed to be fun. Laughter, sea breeze, someone getting too drunk and falling into the fire pit, you know, the usual.
But tonight? It's just heat. Literal heat from the bonfire licking the dusk sky... and the kind that's boiling under my skin every single time I look at her.
Renna Rose Lancaster.
Fuck.
There she is, sitting cross-legged on a beach blanket, a plastic cup of fizzy orange in her lap, surrounded by all the lads like she's some ancient goddess they're worshipping.
And she's smiling-actually smiling at every one of them, those dimples punching holes in my chest. She's supposed to be mine.
And I'm just here, clenching my jaw like a maniac, trying not to let it show that I'm one blink away from dragging her off into the house like a fucking caveman.
Her dress? Not even a dress, let's be honest. It's Freya's, and Freya doesn't own clothes in her size-just scraps stitched together with scandal and a wink. Pink. Ruffled. Barely covering anything.
The top's hugging her tits like it's custom poured over them, soft as sin. Her necklace rests right between them like a fucking spotlight, catching every flicker of firelight and making me want to punch someone for looking. And that skirt? Don't even get me started. One gust of wind and this party's getting more than they paid for.
And she has the audacity to act all sweet and giggly while letting the guys brush her hair back, adjust her top so she's 'decent', and feed her while she's blindfolded.
"What the fuck are they even doing?" I mutter, slouched against a driftwood log near the bonfire, one leg stretched out, bottle of beer sweating in my palm. I can feel the heat of the flames, but it's nothing compared to what's burning in my gut.
Cameron leans in beside me, cocky grin and all. "Mate, relax. She's just guessing who's feeding her. Innocent fun."
"She's blindfolded, Cameron. Blindfolded. They could feed her a fucking oyster dipped in tequila and she'd still giggle like it's cute."
"She's not even drinking, you donut."
"That's not the point."
Cameron's chuckle is infuriating. "You're jealous."
"No shit I'm jealous."
He throws his head back laughing, nearly topples over onto Isla who's sitting between his legs, holding a glass of rosé and painting tiny stars on his face with glitter.
"You're hopeless," Isla adds sweetly, glancing at me. "She's just having fun, Aadam. You wanted her to stay, didn't you? Don't pretend you didn't."
Yeah, I did. I practically begged her to stay the night. Guilt-tripped her out of going home for prayer. And now she's here, looking like temptation, acting like a sweetheart, and being worshipped by every single person I call a friend. Fuck me sideways.
