His throat swells with a swallow, his Adam’s apple protruding. The rhythm of his chest rising and falling picks up and I can tell his breathing changes. In this moment, as my mind races and my pulse ping-pongs through my veins. I want to say good riddance to trying to remain levelheaded and unproblematic when it comes to our friendship. That’s not who I am. I’m flooded with this intense desire to do what I shouldn’t.

“I know what I said yesterday. But what if, just once”—I lick my lips—“would it really be so bad?”

There’s little light, but I don’t need it anyway. It could be pitch black and I still would feel the potency of Fitz’s eyes tracing me, sliding from my face down to my breasts. There’s heat in his stare, and even though we don’t touch, it leaves a molten path in its wake.

I press my thighs together.

My breath hitches when he reaches and yanks his crewneck sweatshirt by the back of the neck, lifting it over his head. Now my breathing matches his. I’m drawn to the span of his broad chest, entranced by how it tapers down to his waist. I can remember the feel of him pressing me into the bed, squirming against him because I had nowhere to go but also nowhere else I wanted to be.

I’m so focused on Fitz that I don’t even realize he’s moved closer until I flinch when he lifts the sweatshirt over my head.

“Yeah.” He tugs it down so my body is covered. “It definitely would.”

Chapter 26

“Parker. It’s locked.”

I jump when the light turns on behind me. Fitz now sits on the bed, running his fingers through his dark hair already sticking up every which way. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He was tossing and turning on the floor, where he’s now had to sleep for another night, and after getting up to check the door half a dozen times, I haven’t made that easier.

“Sorry.” I slide back beneath the duvet, facing away from him. “I won’t do it again.”

I’m talking about the door and the fact that hours ago, I stripped naked in front of Fitz and put myself on the table only to have him decline.

“I promise,” I add. It’s a futile promise for only half of what I apologized for. I’m already itching to check the door again.

The mattress shifts, and I assume he’s gone back to the floor until I hear a shuffling of the blankets before the weight of the bed shifts again. “I’m sorry too.”

I freeze when his warmth invades beneath the blanket.

“About the pool⁠—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell him. “Actually, take it back entirely, please, and try to forget it ever happened.”