Somewhere in the night, my hold on Elizabeth goes from puke patrol to spooning. It’s not even really spooning, more of a blanketing.

That’s a first.

I’ve had girls stay over a few times when I’m too drunk or too exhausted to kick them out, although I try to avoid it. When a girl gets comfortable sleeping in a guy’s bed, instead of just being fucked in it, she gets comfortable everywhere else in his life too.

My sleepovers are minimal and I sure as fuck don’t cuddle. Except with Elizabeth, apparently I do. Having her warm body wrapped up in mine definitely seems like cuddling.

Fuck.

We might even be snuggling.

I’m practically lying on top of her, covering most of her back with my chest. Our arms and legs are a tangled mess. Her tiny body is stretched across half the bed, limbs spread out in every direction. For such a small thing, she sure takes up a lot of room.

It’s surprisingly nice. She must think so too. I know she’s awake, but she hasn’t pulled away.

Don’t get used to it, Jacobs. Don’t get attached.

The sun streaming into my bedroom is enough to tell me I’ve slept in way too late. Time to end this babysitter shit and get on with my day.

“I know you’re up.” The lack of her chainsaw-level snoring is proof of that. She doesn’t acknowledge me. “Should we play sexual chicken to prove it?” I ask, as I glide my hand up the back of her thigh.

She doesn’t flinch, but her breathing gets shallow.

I slip my hand under the hem of her T-shirt, tracing the curve of her tight little ass, giving it a firm squeeze. My cock twitches in my boxers as I resist the urge to give her soft cheek a firm slap.

She’s perfectly still.

It’s a valiant effort, but her body is tense against mine.

I dance my fingers around her hips to the sweet heaven between her legs, applying enough pressure to know she’s wet. My heart rate spikes, desperately pumping all my blood south, but I keep my body relaxed.

She holds her breath.

You’re a terrible faker, Goose.

I dip my thumb inside her panties.

She jolts upright, panting heavily.

“I win,” I confirm before rolling away from her onto my back.

She doesn’t answer. She tugs the T-shirt back down and rakes her hands through her disheveled hair. Her embarrassment is replaced with the unmistakable look of nausea.

“There’s a bucket next to the nightstand. Don’t puke in my bed.”

She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths before she moves again. When it seems she’s back in control of her stomach and its contents, she turns toward me.