He leans forward and his breath tickles my ear. “Enough talkie talkie. It’s nap time.”
A shudder of pleasure ripples through me. “Okay.”
Cope relaxes but doesn’t let me go. Soon, his breathing is soft and rhythmic. It lulls me to sleep in no time at all. Why does everything feel so much better with him?
Oh, God.
He feels good. Too good.
My hips thrust against him, eager for some relief.
His breathing is heavy as his fingers twist into my shirt. He’s daring me. Taunting me. Reminding me I’ll ruin it all if I kiss him. But he’s not pushing me away.
My dick is hard as stone in my jeans and I rub against his erection in his basketball shorts. He moans, but remains perfectly still.
I want to kiss him. I need to kiss him.
Greedily, my lips seek him out. He turns his head. I get his stubbly jaw instead. He tastes salty. It’s addictive. I want to taste every part of him.
Pleasure explodes through me. My cock jolts as I come hard in my pants. When my heart rate slows, I relax against him. He doesn’t let go.
My dreams are cruel and taunting.
I wake with a grumble when I realize my dreams are also wet. Fuck. Chancing a peek, I open my eyes and tilt my head to find Cope frowning at me.
“Good dream?” he asks, his voice husky and raw from sleep.
“Uhh…sorry.”
He shrugs and pushes me away from him before climbing out of the bed. My gaze trails down to his ass in his shorts. His back is muscular and I’d give anything to press kisses along his spine. After he disappears into the bathroom, I run my fingers through my hair, before sliding out of the bed. I dig through his drawers until I find some gray sweatpants. Quickly, I rid myself of my jizz-soaked underwear and jeans. I tear off my shirt to wipe off the remnants and then toss it in the pile. I’ve barely pulled on the sweats when he exits the bathroom. When I take in the red claw marks on his chest, I gape at him.
“Jesus,” I grumble. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” he challenges, sauntering my way, his brow lifted.
“I had a wet dream about you,” I blurt out.
He winces at my boldness. “It was just a stupid dream. Not like you would have acted on it if you were awake. At least you didn’t try to kiss me.”
Liar.
Fucking liar.
His jaw is red and raw. I tried. Like hell, I tried.
And he knows it, too.
But he’s not kicking me out.
“We should study,” I reply, desperate to change the subject.
“I’ll order pizza,” he says as he picks up his phone to search for the app. “Any requests? Coke or Dr Pepper to drink?”
“I’m going to need something a lot stronger,” I mutter.
I pull out my history book from my bag and sprawl out on the floor. I busy myself reading the chapter while Cope scribbles in a notebook. We’re clearly avoiding the topic of what just happened, thank God. When the pizza arrives, I’m feeling better about the whole thing. Cope comes back a short while later carrying a pizza, two plastic cups, and two-liter Coke tucked under his arm. He sets the box and Coke down before handing me both of the ice-filled cups. Then, he walks over to his dresser on a hunt for something. I fill the cups with the Coke. When he returns with a bottle of Jack, I let out a laugh.
“There goes study time. We have school tomorrow, dickhead,” I tell him, biting back a smile.
He pours some into each of our cups. “You said you needed something stronger.”
“So this is my fault?” I snort with laughter as I open the box and grab a slice of pepperoni.
“Everything’s your fault.”
“That time you broke the sliding glass door at my house was totally your fault,” I remind him.
“Your mom wanted French doors. I did her a favor,” he says, while chewing his pizza.
“My dad was so pissed.”
“He couldn’t exactly beat my ass, though I know he wanted to,” Cope says, a devious smirk on his lips.
“I got grounded for that, asshole.”
“Like it did anything. He grounded you from me, but we still hung out.”
As we eat, I’m thrust to the past when we were thirteen going on thirty.
A tap at my window has me rolling out of bed and padding over to it. I expect to see a bird, not my best friend.
“What are you doing?” I hiss through the glass.
He’s sitting on a tree limb, his legs locked around it, and leaned forward with his palms pressed to the glass. “Breaking you out of jail.”
“I can’t leave,” I grumble. “Grounded thanks to you.”
“You can leave,” Cope challenges. “Just walk right out the door.”
“No, the alarm…” I trail off. The alarm couldn’t be set because there’s a piece of plywood where our glass door used to be. “I’ll be right out. Don’t break your neck.”