The Games We Play - Chapter 23: Chapter 23

If there's one street in the world that knows how to do Halloween right, it's Sycamore fuckin' Row.
Picture a long, uneven street just off campus, lined with a mix of mid-century fixer-uppers and Southern-style bungalows that has quickly become ground zero for college chaos. The street itself is kind of a mess—cracked sidewalks, streetlights that flicker ominously, and lawns that are more weeds than grass.
Most of the homes here are bought or rented by students, and they just kind of... stay that way, passed down like some kind of unholy torch from one class of graduates to the next.
A few unlucky civilian families still live here—bless their hearts—but for the most part, it's sacred ground for debauchery. A historical landmark for some of the best and worst nights a UC student will have in their life.
And I just know tonight's gonna be one of those nights.
Every house tries to outdo the others: spooky decorations, strobe lights, fog machines, and soundtracks of creaking doors and bloodcurdling screams pour into the street. It's like the students went out, bought as many Halloween items as possible, and just threw them anywhere and everywhere.
There's music blasting from every house—Monster Mash, Thriller, and Disturbia merging together in one horrible, dizzying remix.
The streets are flooded with people in costumes: pirates, a group of Minions following an appointed Gru, and so, so many slutty hot dogs. There's a guy in a banana costume doing a keg stand on someone's porch.
And I can't even feel my feet. Haven't since we first arrived.
Which, honestly, is probably for the best, because otherwise, I'd be in searing pain right now. These platform white heels? The ones currently strapped to my feet like the world's sexiest torture devices? Yeah, those were Jude's idea.
I'd planned on wearing sneakers, but the second I pulled them out, Jude acted like I'd just committed a damn hate crime.
To be fair, it wasn't his worst idea. I look fucking hot.
The heels make my legs look amazing, and for once, people don't tower over me as much. But holy shit, I'm going to be icing my toes for the rest of my natural life.
The white satin mini dress clings to my curves, the boning in the bodice pushing up my boobs to an absolutely dangerous level. My thighs are on full display, and the short skirt flares out just enough to cover the necessities, but there's no way I'm bending over in this thing.
Add the satin gloves, the tiara perched on my head, the oversized black sunglasses, and the vintage-looking headphones hanging around my neck, and voilà—Her Royal Highness Mia Thermopolis from The Princess Diaries.
Okay, technically, I'm slutty Mia Thermopolis, but details.
The glasses are my favorite part, though. Not because they complete the costume, but because they're doing an excellent job hiding the fact that I took a turn on Yasmine's joint earlier in the night.
I glance down at my feet and wobble slightly, catching myself on the edge of the counter. These heels might be hot, but they're also a death trap waiting to happen. If I go down tonight, it's not going to be because of tequila—it's going to be these stupid shoes.
The kitchen is packed, warm, and buzzing with the familiar chaos of a house party. Music thumps in the background, vibrating through the floor, while the air smells like a combination of beer, sugary drinks, and a so-called "Mystery Cauldron."
Which is just a massive bucket filled with enough alcoholic shit to kill a small Victorian child.
I lean against the kitchen counter, a half-full drink in my gloved hand, laughing at something a girl in an angel costume just said. Her name is Mia—a complete coinky-dink—and I met her all of five minutes ago, which obviously means we're going to be bridesmaids at each other's weddings.
"I'm cursed," Mia declares, slamming her drink onto the counter with a wobble. "Like, genuinely, universally cursed with men who should be fucking their fists and leaving the rest of us alone."
"Girl, same," I groan, tossing back the rest of my tequila soda before slamming the cup onto the counter for emphasis. "I think I was born under some kind of pathetic-man star sign. Like... like... Tragicus Dickus or some shit."
Mia snorts so hard she almost chokes on her drink, doubling over as I pat her on the back. "Tragicus Dickus," she wheezes between laughs. "That's so fucking accurate, it hurts."
"You think I'm kidding?" I jab a finger at her, wobbling a little in my ridiculously high platform heels. "I have proof, Mia. Actual evidence."
"Oh, I need to hear this." She leans in, wide-eyed, her angel wings bumping into a random guy walking by. He shoots her an annoyed look, but she waves him off like the queen she is.
I glance around the crowded kitchen like I'm about to share state secrets. My glasses slip down my nose, but I push them back up, my grip on reality as tenuous as my balance in these damn shoes. Leaning closer, I whisper, "I once dated a guy who... wait for it... only would sleep with the lights on."
Mia gasps, slapping her hand over her mouth. "No. Fucking. Way."
"Swear to god." I raise my hand solemnly, even though I'm barely holding back laughter. "He said the darkness gave him bad dreams."
Mia collapses against the counter, laughing so hard she's practically crying. "Bitch, how are you still alive?!"
"Barely." I shake my head in mock despair. "But—but! The curse can end."
Mia gasps, clutching her chest like I just told her she won the lottery. "Shut up. Are you serious?"
I glance around conspiratorially, leaning closer so our faces are just inches apart. "Dead serious."
Her eyes widen. "Tell me everything."
"Well..." I pause, savoring the moment as Mia stares at me, wide-eyed and hanging onto every word. "I may have stumbled across a... solution."
Mia gasps again, louder this time, practically bouncing on her heels. "Don't you dare hold out on me, bitch. Spill."
I lower my voice to a whisper, the kind you use when confessing your deepest, darkest secrets. "You need a big dick. Big. Dick."
Mia's jaw drops. "How big we talking? Here—tell me when to stop."
She holds up both index fingers together and then slowly begins to draw them farther apart.
The longer I stay silent, the higher her eyebrows rise.
"Wha—no—Cam—huh—?!" She starts stuttering the longer she spreads her fingers.
I tilt my head. "I'd say about there."
"This ain't humanly possible."
"Oh, it is, girly. It is." I grin while taking another swig, the alcohol burning sweetly down my throat.
Mia screams, covering her face as she doubles over in laughter. "Oh my god, stop. That's not a cure—that's a fuckin' miracle!"
I place a hand over my heart, my drunk-ass solemn as hell. "This man... he's basically a saint. Saint Wesley of Blessed Thighs."
Mia snorts so hard she nearly falls into the sink. "Blessed thighs?! Bitch, I hate you."
"Baby, I know." I fan myself dramatically. "Do you know what it's like to be wrecked by a golden retriever in human form? Because I do. My life is changed—and when you find your big-dicked golden retriever man, your life will change too."
"You are so nice!" Mia exclaims into the kitchen as she throws her arms around me, and we're suddenly embracing like long-lost lovers.
Mia and I are mid-embrace, swaying dramatically in the sticky kitchen, when Jude stumbles into the doorway, his jaw dropping like he's just walked in on a murder scene.
"Without me?!" Jude's voice cuts through the chaos as he struts into the kitchen, glittering in his long blonde wig, Cher yellow blazer, and thigh-high boots like he'd been summoned by some succubus chant.
Mia and I turn to him, still mid-hug, our cheeks pressed together as we blink at him like he's interrupting something sacred.
"Y'all are too cute! Let me in on this!" Jude declares, setting his drink down and dramatically prying us apart just enough to wedge himself between us.
"I love y'all!" Mia exclaims as we all hug each other tightly.
The kitchen is spinning, the music thumping in the background, and people are definitely staring—but we don't care.
☆☆☆☆
I'm stumbling down the stairs of yet another house, gripping the railing for dear life as I push past body upon body.
I hold my arms out like I'm parting the Red Sea. "Make way! Princess Mia coming through! Princess fucking Mia!"
This house is a vibe.
Dark wood floors, exposed brick, and mid-century modern furniture that actually doesn't look like it's on its last legs. Someone here has taste—and money. Probably old money. I decide to mentally judge the décor while wandering aimlessly, clutching my empty red Solo cup like a queen surveying Genovia.
The interior design is great, but what really makes my night is spotting a familiar trio across the room. Tasha and Liam are curled up on a massive sectional, looking all disgustingly cute as usual, while Scarlett's standing in front of them, her phone pressed to her ear.
Tasha's in her slutty pink blazer and mini skirt like a sexy Elle Woods, Liam is dressed as an adorable Emmett Richmond—which is just him looking like a basic white guy—and Scarlett's there in her skin-tight yellow jumpsuit. She looks exactly like The Bride. Covered in splattered fake blood, the zipper at the front of her jumpsuit pulled down and her perfect tits on almost full display—she looks amazing.
I would so gladly be stabbed by her katana.
"Oh my god!" I squeal, practically launching myself across the room.
I latch onto Tasha like a drunk koala, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and squishing my face against hers.
"Tasha! I missed you so fucking much!"
Tasha laughs, gently patting my arm. "Cam, I literally saw you five minutes ago."
I pout. "When?"
"You're so gone, Cammy." Liam gives me a lazy smile, and I can tell he's just as gone as me.
"Twins!" I cheer excitedly as I throw my fist toward him, and he knocks it with his.
As I cling to Tasha like I might float away without her, my eyes flick up to Scarlett, who's still on the phone, and find her eyes on me. She's got this soft smile on her face as she stares at me, the kind that's so rare for her it makes me squint in suspicion.
"Yeah," she murmurs into the phone, her voice low but clear over the thrum of music from the party. "She's here now."
I point to her and whisper to Tasha, "Who's she talking to?"
Scarlett hums. "Yeah, she's definitely drunk, but she's happy. Don't worry."
Both Tasha and Liam shrug as Tasha takes another sip from her can, her big brown eyes on Scarlett.
"Ah—sure." Scarlett pulls the phone from her ear and hands it to me with a smirk that says she knows something I don't. "It's for you."
I eye the device like it's a bomb.
"I don't want to talk to the telemarketer," I say as I point at her phone with a wobbly lip. "I can't afford another trampoline!"
Scarlett chuckles while shaking her head. "Just take it, Cam."
Confused but too drunk to argue, I grab the phone and press it to my ear. "Yellow?"
"Hey, baby." Wes's voice comes through, warm and familiar and very much not what I'd been expecting.
"Wes?" I ask, my brain doing the slow, alcohol-fueled math. "Wait, why am I talking to Wes on Scarlett's phone?"
Tasha, Liam, and Scarlett are all watching me with knowing smirks. The bitches.
"Because Cameron's phone is somewhere God knows where, and I needed to make sure you were still alive," Wes said, his tone teasing but with an edge of something softer. "Scar said you were wandering."
"Perchance," I admitted, leaning back against the couch and grinning. "I'm like a... a... what's the word? Explorer. A drunk Christopher Columbus, if you will."
"Discover anything?"
I hum. "A dead mouse and yet another threesome."
"Another?"
"I stumble across the weirdest shit, I swear," I explain with a small scoff and have to bring my hand up to block my other ear.
The music in the dark, orange-and-purple-shaded living room is so loud my heartbeat is literally matching it.
"Well, don't go back to that room," he advised, his tone softer now. "You having fun?"
"So much fucking fun," I said, twirling a little for no reason at all. "But what about you? How'd the game go?"
"We got the win," he said, his tone deceptively light. "Not our prettiest game, though. My arm feels like it's gonna fall off, and the refs were blind fucks, but hey—a win's a win, right?"
I frowned, leaning against the porch railing. "Oh my god—what happened?"
"Nothing major," he said, brushing it off. "Just took a couple hits. Normal football stuff."
"Wes," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"It's fine, Cam," he said, his usual cocky grin practically audible. "I'm still prettier than half the guys out there. No one's breaking this face."
Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. His words were light, teasing, but there was an edge to them—like he was trying too hard to make it all sound like a joke.
But I shrug it off. "So you're on the way back?"
"Yup. About an hour till we're home," he sighs, as if it's too damn long. "Thought I'd call and see how my favorite princess was doing."
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" I said, laughing. "I'm great. You don't need to worry about me, Wesley Reed. I'm having the absolute time of my life."
"I can hear that," he said, his tone light but steady. "Just making sure the princess doesn't need her knight in shining armor."
"And that would be you?" I teased, but my voice was softer now. "I'm so fine. Really. And you, sir, should get some rest, okay? You played a whole game. You're probably tired."
"Cam," he said, his voice dipping in a way that made my stomach flip. "It's chill. I just wanted to hear your voice."
I blinked, suddenly too warm. "Well, now you have. And I'm great. And I really need to watch The Princess Diaries with you, because this whole 'knight and princess' thing is so so wrong."
He laughed, low and warm. "It's a date."
"Good," I said, nodding firmly. "But seriously, you need rest. I need my favorite football guy in tip-top form."
"I need you to tuck me in though."
I groaned. "Wes, if I'm tucking you in, I'm suffocating you with that pillow."
"Sure," he said, his tone softening again. "But if you need me, baby, please call me. Yeah?"
"I'll be fine, Wes," I sighed dramatically, smiling despite myself. "Pinky-promise. Now go to sleep!"
"Alright, alright, go have fun." Wes chuckled softly. "I'll see you later."
I lowered the phone, still grinning like an idiot, and handed it back to Scarlett.
"You good?" she asked, her tone casual but her gaze sharper than it had any right to be.
"Of course I am, baby." I scoff as I marched around the coffee table and slumped down on the sofa, basically on top of Tasha as I rested my head on her shoulder.
"I can't believe both of you managed to get with two players from my favorite team. So proud," Liam sighed with a hand to his chest before looking at his girlfriend. "You really need to step up your game, Tash."
She frowned. "Huh?!"
I adjusted my tiara. "I'm not with Wes."
Liam touched one pointy finger to my nose. "Sure you're not, sweetie."
I pouted, folding my arms as I stared back across the party. Costumed bodies are everywhere—dancing, talking, laughing. It's like everything is back in focus again, and everything sucks. It's not as fun as it was before, and I have no fucking idea why.
I chewed on my bottom lip mindlessly while glaring at everyone and everything.
I felt someone nudge my leg.
When I looked up, Tasha's staring down at me with a soft smile. "Does the princess need her chariot?"
I'm answering before I can stop myself. "Yes."
☆☆☆☆
I sat on Wes' porch, my knees tucked up and my bag resting by my feet, trying to find that damn dog in me because what the hell am I actually doing right now?
This is stupid. So fucking stupid.
The hoodie I'd grabbed in my rush home earlier—one of my old gray ones—felt too thin against the cool breeze, but I had thrown it on in a rush.
My costume, the satin still clinging to me like a stubborn reminder of the night I'd left behind, peeked out beneath the hem, and I'd long since kicked off my heels and replaced them with my trusty, dusty Boston Birkenstocks and crew socks.
An absolute fit.
The soft hum of crickets filled the quiet night air, and the faint glow of the porch light cast a warm circle around me.
Because of an ill-timed deadline for an assignment on Monday, Tash sadly had to remain sober, which meant she was able to drive me home.
Liam was more shit-faced than I was and alternated between sticking his head out the window and planning their entire destination wedding in the passenger seat while I read over news articles about the Colts' game on my phone in the back.
The articles were... rough. Brutal. Not just for Wes but for the whole team.
It made my heart hurt.
We arrived at my apartment—Scarlett still at the party—and, ten minutes and a haphazardly stuffed overnight bag later, Tasha was driving me to Wes' house, her smirk in the rearview mirror visible from fucking space.
And now here I was, sitting on his porch like a little bitch, my chest tight with the realization of what I'd just done.
Friends-with-benefits fuck each other in private and act chill in public.
They don't leave a party and go to the other's house just because they sounded sad on the phone.
They also don't call the other in the middle of said party because they missed them.
Fuck! I'm so fucking confused.
Sure, I'd heard something in his voice on the phone earlier—something quiet and strained that he'd tried to bury under his usual cocky charm—but he'd also just played an entire game of football that, from the articles I read, wasn't the easiest.
But I've also spent way too much goddamn time with him to not know the difference between Wes being tired and Wes being upset. And for some fucking reason, Wes being upset makes me upset.
It didn't use to be like this. What the hell is going on?
We're supposed to be friends with benefits.
Friends...
Headlights cut through the quiet, the faint roar of an engine pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. The deep rumble of an engine grew louder, and then Wes' big blue Ram truck pulled into the driveway.
I put one hand on the white-painted railing and pull myself to my feet.
The truck came to a stop, the engine shutting off with a low growl.
The driver's side door flew open, and Wes jumped out, his tall frame illuminated by the warm glow of the porch light as he looked at me over the truck.
He's in his post-game hoodie and sweats, golden hair falling over his tired blue eyes.
He rounds the front of the truck, his gaze locked on me the entire time.
He didn't even close the damn car door.
My feet take a while to come back to life, but I slowly step down the porch steps and onto the small stone path below. Nervously, I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie as I watch him head straight for me.
"Hi," I said, my voice soft and unsure. "I—um, I know this is a fucking surprise, and I wasn't planning on crashing your night or anything. It's just... I thought maybe—"
I didn't get to finish.
Wes crossed the space between us in three long strides and wrapped me up in his arms.
All the air left my lungs in a whoosh as he pulled me into his strong chest, one hand wrapped around me and the other at the back of my head. Wes pressed me into his body, steady and firm and unyielding.
His face pressed into the crook of my neck, and for a moment, he just held me, his shoulders rising and falling with slow, deep breaths.
"Jesus, Cam," he murmured, his voice rough and low as he buried his face further into my neck.
I'm still caught off guard by the sudden warmth of him but eventually melt into the embrace.
My arms slid around his waist, and a giggle bubbled out of me as his breath tickled against my skin. "Wes! You're tickling me."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands moving to cup my face. His thumbs brushed gently over my cheeks, and his blue eyes searched mine, wide and disbelieving.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low, like the words barely made it out.
I shrugged, trying to play it off. "The party was dying out. I saw the articles about the game, and I figured I'd... you know, check on you. No big deal."
"You are so obsessed with me, aren't you?" Wes chuckled, and it irked me how well he was playing this off when he was clearly affected.
Nonetheless, I laughed and rolled my eyes. "Actually—y'know what—Tasha and Liam just left. If I call them now, I might catch—"
"Hey, hey." Wes' hands slid to my waist, holding me in place when I tried to step around him. My eyes flicked up to his, so big and genuine I almost wanted to cry. "Thank you, Cam."
"You're welcome." I beamed up at him. "You just sounded like you needed someone."
"I needed you," he admitted so casually that I couldn't take him seriously. "So, this what Maggie Thermos looks like, huh?"
He reached for my tiara, and I flicked his hand away. "It's Mia Thermopolis, you uncultured swine. And yes—albeit way sluttier, but it's all in the spirit of Halloween."
"That dress would start wars if she wore it in the movie." Wes smirked as his eyes dropped to my tits through the unzipped gap in my hoodie.
I folded my arms across my chest but grinned up at him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, holding them out to me. "Here. Go on inside, it's cold as hell out here. I'll grab your stuff and bring it in with mine."
I hesitated for a moment, not because I didn't want to go inside, but because there's something about the way he looks at me that makes my chest ache. Like he's more relieved to see me than he'll ever admit.
But I nodded, grabbing the keys, and headed inside.
The warmth of the house hit me as I stepped inside, the familiar smell of his place—something clean and faintly woody—wrapping around me.
I left the door open and blindly reached around for where the light switch would be. I found it, flicked it on, and the ceiling lights illuminated the living room. I shuffled in a little further, my arms wrapped around me, as I gazed over the furniture and layout.
It's a classic boy living room. A huge charcoal gray sectional faces a dark wooden TV stand filled with books and games and tiny knickknacks. There's a huge flat screen balanced on top—at least eighty inches—that takes up a majority of the wall.
There's a dark wooden coffee table and a rusty red Turkish rug beneath—which looks surprisingly authentic. It's messy and yet harmonious.
Organized chaos, I guess.
I look around further as I listen to Wes outside—the sounds of the truck door shutting and his bag rustling against the stone ground.
Seconds later, Wes walks in through the front door with my bag in one hand and his Colts backpack hooked over one shoulder. He walks to the closest end of the sofa and drops our bags down against the arm.
"So," I said, turning to look at him. "Where's the boyfriends?"
Wes glances up. "Ah—Clay went to pick up Scarlett. And Rome stayed back at the Stables. A few of the guys wanted to stick around, play some games, yap some shit."
"And you?" I asked, crossing my arms as I leaned against the counter.
"Shit—I just wanted to come home. It's been a hell of a day," he said, his voice quieter now.
I studied him for a moment—the tired set of his shoulders, the way his hair stuck up in places from what I assumed was an entire car ride of him running his hands through it.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked after a beat.
He tipped his head back, taking a long sip of water before lowering the bottle. "Not right now, Cam."
I nodded, not wanting to push, but the tension in his jaw made my chest ache.
"All I want to do," Wes continued, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as he crossed the living room and met me on the rug, his hands cupping my elbows, "is get into bed."
My face lit up before I could stop it. "I like that idea."
His gaze flicked to me, and his smirk grew into a full-blown grin. "Of course you do."
I rolled my eyes, walking past him toward the couch where my bag sat waiting. I slipped it onto my shoulder, passing him a glance over my shoulder, before heading toward his room.
☆☆☆☆
I'm on my phone, actually researching the most inconspicuous way of stealing a mattress because Wes' bed is just so fucking comfy.
It makes sense that an athlete would need to sleep on something crafted from the hands of gods, but I feel like this just isn't fair.
I want this bed. I need this bed.
And I need to figure out how to steal it without Wes noticing—or knowing it was me.
His room is quiet and still, the golden, dim glow from the bedside lamp stretching over and casting soft shadows on the walls. It's warm and cozy and smells of laundry detergent and Wes' cologne.
I'm propped up against the pillows, against the wall, with my knees up and heels at my butt. I rest my chin on my chest and my phone just a little lower.
In my chaotic packing back at my apartment, I had blindly grabbed whatever pajama set was sitting at the top of my drawers. Turns out that was a bubblegum pink jersey set—thin-strapped tank and tiny shorts.
It wasn't my intention to make Wes crazy—but it's always a perk.
I just can't get over how cozy I am right now.
I'm warm and comfy and so fucking cozy.
The ajar door pushes open, and I peek over my phone just as Wes walks in.
Barefoot, bare-chested, and wearing dark green plaid pajama pants that hung just low enough to make my brain crash and burn.
Fuck, seems like he wanted to make me crazy too.
I ducked back behind my phone, sinking lower into the bed as my cheeks burned.
"Comfortable?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement, as he closed the door behind him.
I sank lower into the bed, angling my phone to block more of my face. "Mhmm."
He snorted, walking down the side of the bed and grabbing a bottle of water from the nightstand. He tipped his head back and drank deeply.
My eyes betrayed me, flicking to the line of his throat as he swallowed, the way his hand curled around the bottle. The tense muscles, the veins. The self-restraint leaving my body and soul.
He pulled the bottle away, grinning down at me as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I frowned, coughed, and turned back to my phone. "Slut."
Wes chuckled softly as he returned the bottle to the nightstand and sat down on the edge, arms stretched straight and hands pressed to the mattress on either side of him.
His back is to me—all toned and muscly and golden. Goddamn.
He began to stretch out his neck and back, like some kind of nightly ritual after a game.
"Hey—how much was your bed?" I hummed curiously.
"Ain't a clue." Wes shrugged as he glanced over his shoulder at me. "It was one of the first promotion things I did with the Colts once it was allowed. Ten, fifteen grand maybe?"
"Shit, never mind then..." I whistled lowly. "I'll stay sleeping on my slab of concrete, thank you very much."
Wes flashed me a grin. "You know there's a solution to that, right?"
"What?"
He smoothed a hand over the mattress. "You could just sleep here every night."
"Ugh—I knew you were going to say that!" I groaned to the roof as I brought my knees up to my chest.
Wes chuckled, turning around and pushing the sheets on his side back. I lowered my legs back down, stretching them out in front of me as I reveled in the feeling of his soft slate-blue sheets against my smooth, freshly waxed legs.
He climbed into bed with the kind of casual confidence that should be illegal—the type that makes my stomach do stupid little flips and my thighs squeeze together on instinct.
He's so tall, so broad, and yet somehow moves like he's weightless, the mattress barely shifting as he slides under the covers beside me.
And then, without hesitation, he's all over me.
"C'mere," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly as his hands find my waist and tug me down from my propped-up position against the pillows.
My phone slips from my hands, forgotten, as he pulls me against him, his warmth seeping into every inch of my skin.
I let out a startled laugh as he settles in, adjusting me like I'm a damn teddy bear he's getting cozy with.
One of his arms slides under my back, wrapping around my waist, while the other drapes over my legs, pulling me snug against him. His body is so big, so solid, and I'm completely enveloped in him—caged in by golden, muscly limbs and the clean, comforting scent of his skin.
Wes adjusts again, shifting lower until his head is resting right between my breasts, the soft fabric of my tank top brushing against his cheek.
"Wes," I laugh, half-protesting as his nose presses against the inner flesh of my tit, just above the low neckline of my tank top, and I feel him inhale deeply, like he's memorizing the scent of me.
"Shh," he mutters against my skin, his voice low and muffled. "This is my new favorite spot."
"Your what?" I ask, trying—and failing—not to laugh as my fingers instinctively find their way into his hair. The strands are soft, damp at the tips, and I can't help but play with them, combing them back lightly.
"My favorite spot," he repeats, more insistently this time, his voice rumbling against me. His lips brush faintly against the swell of my breast, his movement purposely dragging my tank top lower, and my brain short-circuits for a second.
"You're smothering me," I tease, though my tone is far from serious. I can't help the smile tugging at my lips as I shift slightly beneath him, trying to get comfortable.
"You're fine," he says, his grip tightening like he's worried I'll try to escape.
His arm around my waist flexes, pulling me closer—if that's even possible—and his leg hooks tighter around mine, anchoring me completely beneath him.
The waistband of my shorts is pulled down slightly, allowing his fingers to trace lazy circles against my bare hip, his touch absentminded but grounding.
"Wesley Reed," I say again, my voice softer this time, more exasperated than annoyed.
"Shh," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "Just let me hold you for a second, baby."
That makes me pause.
There's something about the way he says it—soft and quiet, almost vulnerable—that has my heart doing a weird little flutter in my chest.
He just stays there, his weight heavy but comforting against me, his breath warm against my skin as his body slowly relaxes.
I let out a contented sigh, my own body melting into his as the tension seeps out of me. The weight of the day, the party, the drinks—it all fades away, replaced by the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ribs and the soothing rhythm of his breath.
My fingers find their way to the back of his head, brushing lightly through his hair, and I feel him exhale deeply against me, like he's been holding something in and finally let it go.
"Comfy now?" I ask softly, my voice teasing but warm.
"So fuckin' comfy," he mutters, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of my shoulder.
I sink further into him, into the bed, into this moment, and—oh shit.
I like Wes.
Not in the casual, oh-he's-fun-to-hang-out-with way. Not in the shallow, I-like-your-face-now-take-off-your-pants way either. No, this is worse. This is real fucking bad.
I really like Wes.
Every slow exhale of his breath against my skin, every gentle caress of his thumb tracing lazy circles on my hip, every quiet hum of contentment rumbling from his chest as he lies on me—it all feels like it's rewiring my brain.
Like he's quietly carving himself into the deepest parts of me without even trying.
I should be back at the party, letting some slutty hot dog take body shots from my belly button.
But I'm here, in his home, in his bed.
With his head resting between my breasts, his arms wrapped around me like he's afraid to let go.
And I don't want him to let go.
I don't want him to stop.
I don't want this—whatever this is—to end.
Oh, fuck.