Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Chance

Jesus fucking Christ.

The first thing my brain registers is warm, soft skin, the intoxicating scent of vanilla, and something uniquely Holly filling my lungs.

Somewhere between our late-night confessions and dawn, I've ended up with my face nestled against her inner thigh, and my mouth a whisper away from territory that would definitely get me court-martialed by her brother.

Opening my eyes is a tactical error. A pink flamingo tattoo on her upper thigh peeks out from beneath the hem of my shirt. Otis , according to the cursive script beneath its long, elegant neck.

When the hell did Holly get a tattoo? In that ocean of tequila she mentioned last night? And why a flamingo named Otis?

The smug little bird appears to be holding a martini glass, balancing on one leg like he’s trying to pass a field sobriety test.

The urge to trace it with my tongue bull-rushes me. Before I can think better of it, my lips part. Military discipline and my commitment to the bro code crumbles in the face of one tiny pink bird strutting across her skin like he owns the damn place.

Nice and slow, I stretch my neck and settle my mouth over her warm skin.

My lips tingle with my feather-light exploration of a part of her I was never meant to see.

Who the hell is this Holly? The one with named tattoos and fuck-me socks designed to keep a man’s cock locked and loaded.

And don’t even get me started on the glasses.

Blood surges through my veins faster with every stolen brush of my lips.

My best friend’s annoying little sister turns the casual act of enjoying a ring pop so sexy it has the ability to ignite a whole new fetish powerful enough to become the top search term on Pornhub.

My eyes sink shut as I fight the urge to dig my fingers into her flesh.

The strong woman who embraces her fears and turns them into bullets of pure determination to take on her father without flinching?

Darting out the tip of my tongue just far enough to get a tortuous taste, I choke back the groan clawing its way up my throat.

The obnoxious little sister who used to trail after us with scraped knees and determination has evolved into something far more dangerous.

Brave and strong with secret tender spots I want to discover.

And protect.

Nick never should have been worried about me fucking his little sister... he should have worried about this.

My cock throbs painfully, punishing me for denying him the relief of grinding against the valley of her spine.

Mumbling sleepily, her fingers trail over my hair and settle along the back of my head as she tugs me closer in her sleep.

Heat crawls over my skin. The jagged sound of my choppy breaths pound in my skull.

Her grip tightens, and with unexpected strength, she shoves my head deep between her legs as she sighs, mumbles, and shifts repeatedly on the mattress.

Cotton underwear brush against my nose, a dangerously thin barrier between my promises and the intoxicating warmth I want to get lost in.

A sleep growl of frustration slips from her lips. “Get in there, dammit.”

Ummmmm, what?

Another growl rumbles from her this one full of sleepy frustration. Her thighs flex and tighten. Remarkably strong yet delicate fingers lock onto my ears.

S—O—fucking—S.

What started out as quite possibly the single most erotic wake-up of my life is a fight for survival under the very real threat of suffocation— fuck .

"I like it rough as much as the next guy…“ The words come out strangled as her legs squeeze tighter. "But maybe we should discuss consent first."

Rambling something unintelligible, she rolls her hips, clearly still deep in whatever dream that has her grinding against my face.

Her scent hits me, heady and undeniable, threading through my senses—a mix of warmth and something that feels like an invitation.

The cotton brushing my nose is damp, teasing me with proof that whatever’s happening in her dream has her completely undone.

Holy hell.

My brain scrambles, caught between the heat rolling off her and the way her hips shift in some instinctive, maddening rhythm. It’s a wake-up call I’ll never forget, one I’m not sure I’d survive twice.

At the first opportunity, I slip from a grip fit for the WWE, but the damage is done.

Her warmth, the soft little sounds she makes—they're burned into my brain like sensitive Intel I’ll never be able to delete—just like the classified details of her fears, her dreams, and everything she's fighting for.

That Holly, who let her guard down, seems worlds away from the one who's about to wake up.

Rolling onto her back, she flings an arm over her eyes. My shirt parts with her movement, revealing flushed skin and a hint of the curve of her breast that has me reaching for my phone and capturing this glimpse of her.

Just to torment Nick. That's all.

But seeing her like this—relaxed, soft, those damn striped socks still clinging to her thighs like some kind of candy cane fantasy come to life—does something to my chest I'm not ready to examine.

The early morning light catches on her tumbled hair, revealing spun copper strands threaded through the waves.

I focus on her slightly parted lips bringing me back to how they looked wrapped around her ring pop, followed by the soft, sticky sound of it popping free, leaving the wet shimmer of cherry sweetness smeared on her pink, edible— Mission abort. Mission fucking abort.

I should delete the photo. My thumb hovers over the garbage icon, my chest heaving as two opposing versions of me battle for control.

A better man would delete it, but I can’t.

Grasping for normalcy and solid ground, I shoot the image to Nick.

Me

Rise and shine, fucker. Sleep good?

I hope he didn’t. If I suffer, he suffers. We go down together. I follow up with every phallic emoji I can think of—a few of them highly questionable. The flashlight looks like a fleshlight and the crossing swords are—whatever, doesn’t matter—let him choke on his coffee over that one.

I escape to the safety of the shower before I can analyze my life choices any further. But even scalding water can't wash away the details carving into my memory, rewriting everything I thought I knew about little Holly McAdams.

Twenty minutes later, what should be a normal tooth-brushing routine, is a direct assault on my gums. Frustration fuels my most basic movements… until my eyes lock on a scrap of white cotton panties.

Painted across the back in delicate cursive—"Am I more than you bargained for yet?"—complete with fucking antlers, like some kind of battle cry.

Eyes front. Keep brushing.

And there, right next to this modern declaration of war, a whisper of white lace masquerading as a bra. The two pieces mock me from their perch on the robe hook.

No amount of military discipline could stop me from surrendering to Holly’s unintentional act of psychological warfare.

Not exactly the way I planned to go out—from DEFCON five to leveled-by-panties asking the exact question I'm too afraid to answer.

Yeah, Squirt. You're way more than I bargained for.

"Undisclosed fetish I should have known before I shared a bed with you?"

Jumping at the sound of her voice, I choke, setting off a frantic struggle to avoid the dubious honor of being the first person taken down by toothpaste.

She leans against the doorframe waiting out my struggle amusement curving her lips.

Meanwhile, despite my possible imminent death, I continue fondling her underwear like some hormone-driven recruit who doesn’t know his way around a clit.

And I definitely know my way around a clit.

"Just admiring your, uh, artistic expression." Real smooth, soldier. "Fall Out Boy lyrics? Really?"

"Yes, really. Would you three like to be alone?" She snatches them from my hands, her fingers brushing mine in a way that definitely doesn't make my pulse spike. “They have outpatient services for this sort of thing now."

She's trying for light, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice, the way she won't quite meet my eyes.

Last night changed things, whether we want to admit it or not.