His bed is unmade. My dirty, funky clothes are on the floor next to the bathroom door. My perfume bottle I left on his black metal dresser. It looks like a tornado came through here. His room is identical to mine except his closet is bigger and his bed is made out of maple wood.

“I’ll clean the mess up,” I say as embarrassment dances on my face.

“Why are you sleeping in my room?”

“Izzy needed a place to crash. I didn’t want to sleep on the couch, and I was going to clean up my mess before Monday, but you showed up sooner. Sorry.” I follow him in and stand next to the dresser.

He goes to the drawer, grabbing a pair of gray boxers, cotton T-shirt, and black basketball shorts.

“Why are you here on a Saturday?” I ask as I lean my right hip against his black dresser.

“I went to Matt’s club and didn’t want to drive all the way home.”

He turns around, and his gaze clings to my bubblegum-pink knee-high socks. I’m in my white tank top and purple flannel pajama shorts. I wrap my arms around my body, covering it like a shield.

“So you’re not mad?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“So you’re not going to kick me out?”

“Why would I do that?” He gives me an are-you-serious look.

I shrug, and he continues to stare at me, his mouth twitching.

“Did you sleep naked in my bed?” he asks out of the blue.

“Well . . . No. In my bra and panties. Why?”

He takes long strides toward me, taps his fingers on my nose, and his lips are inches from mine. I swallow hard.

“I want to imagine you while I jack off in the shower.”

My eyes get big, and I back away slowly as I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling. My sex is hungry and needy as it throbs and aches. My breast grows heavy as my nipples become sensitive against the cotton fabric.

The sexual tension is so thick I can cut it with a knife.

“Are you spending the night here? Or . . .” I leave the question in the air to break up the sexual tension between us.

“Yeah, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“’Kay,” I say.

“Did you play with yourself?”

My cheeks flame and I twirl the loose strand of hair floating in front of my forehead around my fingers.

Oh, I did. Every time I smelled his sheets. I thought about him screwing me while I stared at myself in the mirror above his bed.

“That’s a personal question.”

“You did.” He tilts my chin with the rough pad of his thumb, and I feel like I’m about to combust. “How many fingers did you use?”

I glance down to his black slacks, notice the size of his erection, and my sex does a happy dance between my legs.