Chapter 34
thirty-four
. . .
CONNOR
Whitney blinks at me like I just tried to assign her homework.
“Excuse you?”
“If anyone sees us,” I say, keeping my voice low, “I’d rather it be me first.”
It comes out firmer than I mean it to. Warmer, too. Because the second she steps into a situation like this, my brain stops being an athlete and starts being something else. Something that wants her safe. Covered. Protected.
Her expression shifts—annoyance first, then that familiar spark of chaos she uses as armor.
“Wow,” she whispers. “Chivalry. How noble.”
A laugh tries to break free, but I trap it in my chest.
“Okay,” I murmur, accepting my fate. “On my count.”
She leans in like we’re plotting a bank heist, eyes bright in the dark. “We are absolutely going to tell no one about this.”
My gaze catches hers—dark, amused, way too aware of the fact that she’s naked, I’m naked, and I’m trying to pretend this is just a logistics problem.
“Agreed.”
“And if we get caught,” she adds, dead serious, “tell my brother it was the towel’s fault.”
That does it. My mouth twitches. “He’ll still blame me.”
“Probably,” she whispers, delighted.
I take the lead because if she takes the lead, we’re going to end up waving at a security camera and asking it for directions to the lost and found.
We creep along the stucco wall, staying in the shadow line. The courtyard is quiet except for the distant hum of an AC unit and Whitney’s barely-contained energy buzzing behind me.
“Just so you know. I can see everything,” she stage-whispers.
I close my eyes for half a second. “Jesus, Whitney.”
Her shoulders shake. “What? You told me to stay behind you.”
“My stealth mode,” I mutter, “would appreciate less commentary.”
“Oh, I probably should’ve mentioned I’m terrible at hide and seek,” she says, like she’s confessing a fun fact at brunch. “And really anything that involves being quiet when it’s necessary.”
I shoot her a look over my shoulder—stern, because I have to be, but I can’t keep the amusement out of it. She grins like we’re on a Sea of Thieves mission and not actively trying to prevent indecent exposure charges.
I stop beneath the balcony and scan the wall, the railing, the angles. No obvious footholds. No trellis. No chair. Of course.
“You can’t climb up there,” I whisper. “There’s nothing to grab onto.”
Whitney tilts her head, considering. Then her eyes sharpen like she just solved a puzzle.
“All right,” she says. “Boost me.”
My brain glitches.
“You—”
“Boost,” she repeats, like she’s ordering a latte. “Come on. It’s not like your face is unfamiliar with this region of my body.”
She’s right, but it only serves to remind me I’d rather be tongue deep in her right now instead of running through this courtyard naked.
“Very funny. I’d smack your ass right now if I didn’t think you’d scream and wake up the entire hotel.”
Whitney’s smile goes wicked. “Rain check?”
I exhale, slow and controlled. “Fine. Turn around.”
She does, still grinning, and I step in behind her.
My hands find her hips automatically—steadying, precise, the same way I’d stabilize someone for a stretch. Except there’s nothing neutral about the way her breath catches when my fingers settle.
Then, I lift.
Whitney goes up onto my shoulders, light and solid at once, and my entire nervous system lights up because now she’s above me and I’m trying to act like this is normal.
“Okay,” she whispers, reaching. “Okay—”
Her thighs tighten slightly as she balances and I force my attention outward—courtyard, doorways, lights—anything except the fact that her center is warm against my neck and my brain is going haywire with that information.
We move into position and her fingers brush the towel.
But a light flicks on inside the room, so I shift, moving us back into the shadow line.
“Wait—” Whitney whispers urgently. “Go back, I almost had it.”
Above us, the balcony door slides open.
My pulse spikes as I move, fast and quiet, because getting caught isn’t an option and neither is leaving her up here.
Whitney leans, stretching with that athlete precision—like she’s reaching for a wall touch in the last tenth of a race.
“Got it,” she whisper-hisses, triumph vibrating in her voice.
“What the—” someone says above us.
At the sound of their voice, I don’t think, I just go.
Taking off in a fast jog with Whitney still on my shoulders, and the towel in her hand streaming behind her like a flag flapping in the wind.
We round the corner and I stop, chest heaving as I listen for footsteps, but there’s nothing.
Just the hum of the courtyard lights and Whitney’s laugh, breathless and thrilled, right above my head.
Now that we’re safe, the feel of her on my shoulders hits harder—warm skin against my neck, the slide of her inner thighs against my collarbones when she shifts, the light tickle of her calves against my chest.
And my body, like the traitor it is, chooses now—when the adrenaline drops—to notice exactly what I’m carrying. Whitney. Breathless, laughing, and naked.
Suddenly all I can feel is her heat through the night air.
I tighten my grip—partly to steady her, partly to keep my brain in towel retrieval mode and not on the fact that if I take one wrong breath, I’m going to forget we’re supposed to be sneaking.
“Okay,” she whispers, and it comes out like she’s trying not to laugh too loud. “I’m officially adding grand theft towel to my résumé.”
“Not helping,” I mutter, but I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from pulling up.
“How should I—” she starts, and I don’t let her finish.
I dip her over my shoulder, rotate her down in one smooth motion, and set her on her feet like this is something I do every day instead of something that’s going to replay in my head for the next decade.
She steadies herself, hair damp, and eyes bright.
“I guess that’s one way to do it,” she says, voice shaky with adrenaline and something else entirely.
Now, even with the acquired towel, we’re both standing here naked like we forgot what the entire mission was for. It’s like eyes adjusting to darkness, we’ve calibrated to a world where our nakedness is completely normal.
Whitney holds up the towel. “There’s only one. What’s the plan?”
My ears perk at the sound of footsteps on the path.
Christ. Why are there so many people around here awake past midnight? Does no one sleep?
The footsteps get louder. Closer. And then I see him. A groundskeeper in a cap, doing a slow sweep of the courtyard, flashlight beam drifting over plants and benches and the inconveniently lit path.
I grab the large, fluffy towel from Whitney’s hands and yank it open.
She makes a tiny surprised sound, and I don’t even think—I swing the towel up and over my shoulders like a cape, the weight of it landing across my back. Then, I wrap the towel around Whitney’s back, pulling her flush to my chest before closing it around her.
Her hands flounder under the towel, like she’s not sure where to put them.
What seems to be instinct, she grabs the edges of the towel and pulls.
It only decreases the space between us, pressing her closer to me.
In the tighter space, she shifts and bumps her pelvis directly into my dick. My very aware, very aroused dick.
The flashlight beam skims past the path.
Whitney’s breath sticks in her throat.
Mine does, too—only now it’s not because of the groundskeeper.
It’s because she’s pressed against me under the towel, naked and warm and close enough that every part of me notices.
“Oh.”
I swallow.
Her eyes flick down, then back up to my face, and even in the dark I can see the satisfaction spark.
I take the moment to rotate her, turning her to face outward so she’ll be able to walk.
“Come on, Chaos, let’s go before we get into more trouble.”