Holden understands my mostly intelligible sentence. My shirt moves up, the bare skin of my stomach rubbing against the cotton and flannel he’s wearing. “What about here?” His mouth moves lower, following the trail of his hands up my abdomen until cool air covers my whole chest. “Will anyone see if I mark your tits, Cassia?”

All I can manage is a head shake in response. I’m adrift in a sea of sensation, savoring the feel of him touching me. Above me. There’s a pulsing throb between my legs.

I shift my hips, searching.

He smiles against my skin, lips light and teasing. “You want to come, Cassia?”

“Yes.” The word is a breath.

I’m expecting him to move his leg so I can rub against it. Maybe use his fingers. When he sits up and moves back, I rise up on my elbows. “What are you—”

“Lie back.”

I hesitate before listening, rolling my head to the side so I can watch him. He tugs my sleep shorts down, leaving me in my underwear. They’re boring and blue, not what I would have chosen to wear if I’d had any idea he’d see them.

Holden smirks as his hand moves from my hip and between my thighs. I realize why when he traces the strip of fabric.

I’m soaked. There’s no way to hide how affected I am.

His amusement disappears when I undulate my hips, trying to chase some stimulation from his fingers. They fist around the blue fabric, and then it’s jerked away. All of a sudden, I’m basically naked. My pajamas and underwear are on the floor and my shirt is up around my shoulders.

“Holden…” I’m not as embarrassed as I thought I would be, spread out under him like this.

There’s a part of me that feels powerful, watching his gaze darken to navy as his eyes linger on all the bare skin beneath him.

But I feel vulnerable too. He’s fully dressed and I’m on display.

And I have no idea what he’s thinking. How far he wants to take this. Based on his comment earlier, he believed me about being more experienced than I actually am. About last weekend being a regular night for me. If he’d bothered to pay any attention to my stark lack of a social life, the idea is laughable.

“Fuck, Cassia. Just…fuck.” His mouth lands on my inner thigh, and I figure out what he’s planning to do. Anticipation and excitement streak through me, followed by the fizzle of nerves.

“No one has ever…”

I regret the admission as soon as it leaves my lips. That’s the problem with lying. It’s a web that spirals and expands, drawing you in and then twisting around you. It snags the truth and complicates it.