She makes a face. “With my brothers? Hard pass.” She hands the beer back to me.

“Fine.” I watch her over the bottle as I tilt it to my lips and swallow. “Never have I ever gotten Shay off with my hand.”

She folds her arms, all smugness, until the logic of my statement sinks in and red blossoms in her cheeks. “Are you seriously asking me if I have masturbated?”

My cock has been half hard since she stepped out of the shower, but at that, it goes the rest of the way. “Again with the precise word choice.” I shrug. “And in all fairness, you could turn around and do the same to me.”

She rolls her eyes and takes the beer. “I’m not wasting a turn like that.” She drinks.

I thought I knew what I was doing when I said it, but the image of her in bed flashes through my mind as clear as a photo—her hand between her legs, pleasure on her face, all that dark hair splayed across the pillow as she arches into her own touch.

So fucking hot.

My cock strains against the fly of my jeans. I’m playing with fire right now, but I can’t muster any motivation to back down. “Not all girls do, you know,” I say. “Some are afraid to touch themselves.”

“Yeah, well, I was raised around five boys who talk about masturbation as if it’s a sport half the time and as if it’s as essential as water the other half. I didn’t exactly have to go up against some massive stigma the first time I tried it.”

“And how was it?” I swallow. “When you . . .”

She snorts. “You are twenty-one years old, and you can’t say the word masturbated?”

“Why would I when it sounds so much hotter when you say it?” I grin at her immediate and vivid blush, then nod to the bottle. “It’s your turn.”

She lifts her chin and holds my gaze as she says, “Never have I ever had someone other than myself get me off.”

“Why not?”

She shoves the bottle into my hand. “Quit cheating with your unsanctioned questions and drink.”

Just how innocent is she? I look at the bottle. There’s hardly a full drink left. Mindful of this, I take a sip and then push all my chips in. “Never have I ever kissed anyone.”

“You filthy liar.”

Grinning, I tilt the beer to my lips, taking the drink I owe for speaking a never that I have done. I arch a brow. Waiting. Because surely this beautiful, smart, funny girl has been kissed before. Surely, some guy saw her for what she was and won her over so he could taste those pink lips.

But when I offer her the beer, she shakes her head.

“Never,” she whispers. “Pretty lame, huh?”

“It’s not lame. Just . . . surprising.”