Chapter 17
"And the entire yacht club had to be evacuated," Virginia giggles under her breath. She's perched on the arm of my chair, all tanned legs, and designer perfume that's giving me a headache.
"Fascinating," I mutter. But I'm not listening because across the room, Carter's telling some story about his trip to Greece, and Ivy's laughing. He's leaning closer than necessary, all smooth confidence in his tailored shirt, and a hot knot forms low in my stomach.
"God, that sounds so beautiful," Ivy says, and I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not. But Carter grins like he won the lottery, and I force myself to focus on Virginia's yacht story.
"That must have been terrible," I cut in, flashing her my best charming smile. "All those trust funds floating away."
"You're awful," she giggles, touching my arm. "I love it."
From the corner of my eye, I catch Ivy glancing over. Carter's saying something that makes her smile again, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes this time.
"You know what's really awful?" I lean closer to Virginia, pitching my voice loud enough to carry. "This one time, at the pizza shop . . ."
The story's not even that funny—some drunk college kids trying to pay in Monopoly money—but Virginia loses it, falling into my lap with theatrical grace. I catch her out of reflex, my hand landing on the bare skin of her thigh.
Across the room, Ivy stands abruptly. "I should call Amelia and Vinnie."
"Want me to find you later?" Carter offers, and a band seems to cinch tight across my ribs.
"No, it's fine, I'll just . . ." She gestures vaguely toward the door, but not before a flicker of hurt flashes across her face. It's enough to make me want to shove Virginia off my lap and go after her.
Carter's gaze follows her out like she's wearing a neon sign that says FRESH MEAT.
His tongue rolls out of his mouth, and my fingers itch to rearrange his face.
Preferably with the nearest blunt object.
But Virginia's trailing her lips on my neck, and I'm trapped in this ridiculous game we're all playing.
Matt catches my eye from his spot on the couch, smirking as if this is all going according to some master plan. The asshole shoved Virginia at me earlier with a not-so-subtle "show her a good time."
Jefferson's knuckles go white around his whiskey glass whenever Virginia lets out another breathy sound, and the room's so charged with unresolved drama, you could power the whole damn vineyard with it.
Virginia shifts in my lap, and this girl's got zero shame.
Her hand slides up my thigh, fingertips trailing dangerous paths while she pretends to be invested in whatever's happening on the screen.
She grinds down again, precise and deliberate, and my body's clearly as confused as I am about what we're doing here.
"Mmm," she hums, way too close to my ear, rolling her hips with an intent that sure as hell isn't about getting comfortable. "You feel good."
Except I don't feel anything. Not the way I should. Not the way I used to.
"You know what I think?" Virginia's hand creeps higher, and Jesus Christ, is no one else seeing this? "We should find somewhere more private."
My body should be responding to this. Any normal guy would be half-hard by now with a gorgeous woman grinding on him. Instead, I feel . . . nothing. Like my dick's on strike until further notice.
"Jet lag," I shout, standing so fast Virginia almost face-plants into the carpet.
Matt's not even trying to hide his laughter anymore, the dick. Sarah elbows him, but he just grins wider.
Virginia pouts. "But the movie's not even halfway done."
"Tragedy," I mutter. "Truly devastating."
I'm already backing toward the door, looking like I'm fleeing a crime scene, which, considering what Virginia was about to do to me in front of everybody, isn't far off.
When I push open our room door, the hinges groan in protest. The room's dark except for moonlight filtering through those gauzy curtains, casting everything in silver and shadow. And there's Ivy, fast asleep in the middle of a massive mattress.
Shit. Right. The bed situation. Between Virginia's theatrics, and Matt's nonstop commentary, I forgot. Which leaves me with the couch. Technically furniture, functionally a torture device for anyone over six feet.
But I glance at the bed again, and suddenly the couch is the least of my problems.
Ivy's stretched out like an offering, one leg kicked free of the tangled sheets, shirt rucked up so high it should be illegal. The black lace underwear peeks out and makes me swallow a groan.
Her blue hair's a wild mess against white pillows, and there's that little snore she always denies having, but I can't focus on anything except how the moonlight worships every curve.
The soft dip of her waist. The perfect roundness of her ass.
The endless expanse of bare thigh that my hands suddenly ache to grab.
I should look away. I'm going to look away.
But my eyes are greedy bastards, drinking in every detail like I'm dying of thirst. The way her shirt's twisted up around her ribs, revealing a strip of pale stomach.
The soft curve of her breast pressed against the mattress, and Jesus Christ, I can see the outline of her nipple through the thin fabric.
My hands shake with the need to touch. To wake her up with my mouth on her neck, to slide my fingers under that scrap of black lace while she gasps my name. The primal part of my brain wants to mark every inch of her skin.
Want slams through me with staggering force, my cock straining against my zipper, demanding attention. Ten minutes ago, Virginia was practically offering herself on a platter, and I felt dead inside. Now, one look at Ivy sleeping and I'm ready to combust. What the hell is wrong with me?
The room spins as if I've had too much whiskey, and I realize I've been holding my breath, terrified that one exhale could wake her. That she'd catch me staring; devouring her like some ravenous beast.
I brace my hands on the desk, eyes squeezed shut, forcing myself to forget the curve of her waist. But my body doesn't care.
It craves what it shouldn't. I lurch into the bathroom, blood roaring in my ears.
My skin burns, and there's only one name pounding through my head—hers. Ivy. Ivy. Fucking Ivy.
Steam erupts from the shower in a thick, volcanic cloud as I peel my shirt off, the damp fabric dragging across my back. Pants next. Boxers. I kick the whole mess into the corner, too far gone to care where anything lands.
The second the water hits me, I brace against the tile. One hand on the wall, the other on my cock, needy in a way I don't want to admit.
All I can see is Ivy.
The way she bites her lip when she's thinking. How she'd taste if I kissed her. How it would sound if she moaned my name.
"Fuck," I groan, the word echoing off marble.
I stroke harder, chasing release, and water sheets down my spine, tracing every nerve like a warning. The room fills with the slick rhythm of my hand, the pounding shower, my own desperate breathing.
Fantasy hijacks my brain. Ivy on her knees in this steaming sanctuary.
The way she'd gaze up, eyes wide, mouth soft and parted, that innocent curiosity driving me insane.
Fingers trailing up my thighs, slow and teasing.
Breath hot against my skin. And then those perfect lips wrapped around my cock, turning worship into exquisite torture.
I fuck into my fist with the rhythm she sets in my head, imagining her taking me deeper, mascara streaking down her cheeks as she swallows around me. Craving it. Obsessed with making me come. Her fingers dig into my thighs for balance, nails carving crescent marks I'd wear like a badge.
My body convulses, cock pulsing as I spill into trembling fingers, her name ripping from my chest.
I sag against the wall, heart jackhammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape what I just did. I crank the water to cold because I deserve it—deserve worse, actually, for getting off to thoughts of her while she's sleeping twenty feet away.
What kind of fucking creep does that?
My throat's raw from choking back her name, and my head spins like I've taken a hit of something I shouldn't have. Bliss in the moment, now nothing but hollow and shame.
The worst part? Guilt churns in my gut, shame burns up my spine . . . and I'm still half-hard.
I lean my head back, let the icy water sting my eyes. Punishment for being the worst kind of friend. For taking something pure and turning it dirty. For letting ten years of carefully buried want explode in my hand.
When I finally step back into the bedroom, I'm almost certain she'll be sitting up in bed, somehow knowing exactly what I did. Ready to look at me with disgust, with judgment, with that disappointed expression that would be worse than any anger.
But she lies there, lost in sleep and soft little snuffles while I melt down three feet away.
The couch creaks as I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't feel like penance. Not that I don't deserve it. Call it karma's way of rubbing it in. Next time, maybe don't be such a horny idiot.
This week will be my personal hell, complete with a front-row seat watching Ivy sleep while I try to forget how good it felt to come apart thinking about her.
I am so monumentally fucked.