When he got back down to the eighth floor, he was prepared. Dorsey had held out as long as he could, but the cold had crept up. His soundproof headphones and the mountain of pillows—to build impenetrable borders between his body and hers—teetered as he made his way back to the pod. He looked like a hockey goalie. But when he pulled open the pod, Liza was already asleep. She had some silk scarf wrapped around her head. Lying there with her brush of black eyelashes resting on her cheeks, she looked like she had been lifted out of a charcoal sketch. He exhaled a shaky breath and placed the pillows inside the gleaming white pod. When he closed the hatch above his head, he was enveloped in blessed warmth and the smell of coconuts and some other nutty bouquet. Before he carefully fashioned his pillow wall so that he could avoid accidental contact, he allowed himself to study her body outlined in shadow. She looked like she’d been drawn by a master. She was alternately lush and lean, full and hollow. The shimmering brown of her skin reminded him of the warm, tropical riverbanks he fished from as a child. Would she be that warm and wet? Could he submerge himself and let her wash over him? He lifted her head and wedged a pillow underneath her to make her more comfortable. The warmth and coconut smell weaved around him, and his eyes got heavy. Then, immediately, his eyes popped open wide.

An ass.

The soft rise of a perfect peach ass on his hip. Was it? It was. It was grinding now.

Nope.

No.

He shook her shoulder.

“Liza!” he whispered. The panic rose in his voice. “Liza!” Her eyes fluttered open.

“What?” Liza looked confused, but how could she be? She had to feel her entire ass on his leg.

Dorsey knifed an imaginary line down the middle of the pod. “You’re over the line.”

“What line?” Liza asked groggily.

He hacked the air with the flat of his hand. “This line.”

“You’re just making gestures,” Liza said and settled back into her position.

“You. Your butt is over the line.”

“Should I apologize for being a Black woman, then?”

“It’s not about that. It’s just bad sleep technique. You’re like the letter S. You should be straight like a lowercase l.”

Liza turned over to face him again. Dorsey bit his bottom lip. Had her eyes been that intense shade of brown yesterday? Had her lashes been this long? The snaps on that cheap shirt could easily come undone in the night.

He shifted a pillow over his cock. It pulsed in response to an unasked question. No, you are not fucking invited.

“A lowercase l like you?” she asked.

“Yes, like me. This is good bed-sharing etiquette.” Dorsey demonstrated his perfect form.