Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,49

clearly enough: the solid mass of muscle and bone, the perfect angles of his shoulders, his jaw, the way his mouth is open and soft, letting out these quiet, deep grunts with each shift forward, each drag back.

He leans down, sucking a nipple into his mouth and then tugging with his teeth. I pull in a sharp breath at the twist of pleasure and pain, and feel more than see the way he smiles against my skin.

In the morning, I’m sure I’ll try to remember every little bit of it, because it feels frantic and wild here on the floor, with my hands on that perfect ass and my legs wrapped around him, pulling him in, silently telling him, Deeper. I’ll want to confirm internally that I really did have drunk sex with my best friend.

In the morning, I’ll tell myself it’s okay that I scream into his ear when my orgasm hits me with the momentum of a train. I’ll tell myself it’s fine that I bite his shoulder when I surprise us both and melt beneath him again. But right now, I only want to think about how warm he is, how good he feels moving inside me. I want to focus on how his hair slips between my fingers and how he babbles about soft and skin, how the words fucking and wet sound both filthy and reverent in my ear. I focus on how he kisses my neck and grows rigid all over when he tells me he thinks he’s coming.

So hard, Haze. Oh, God, I’m coming so hard.

I know I’m drunk, and I know it’s Josh Im—the blueprint for Perfect, who should never want Hazel Bradford—but when it’s done, and he goes still over me, breathing heavily into my neck, I choose to melt into that sublime blur of pleasure, the way I used to think it might feel to live in a cloud.

TWELVE

* * *

HAZEL

I must have fallen asleep beneath Josh on the new hardwood floors of my hallway, because I don’t remember getting into bed. The only reminder that last night happened is the fact that I’m naked, sore, and a little sticky. Josh is gone.

But Josh being Josh, there’s a little note on my pillow that says, simply,

I’ll call you later this morning

—J.

My stomach takes an anxious leap. On the one hand, last night was pretty great—I think?—so I don’t imagine he’ll be mad that we both got laid. On the other hand, sex always changes things, and the last thing I want is for anything to change between us. I might have enjoyed the sex more than I’ll admit to him, but I’m Crazy Hazie and he’s Awesome Josh (hangover prevents me from finding something that rhymes with Josh) and nothing—I mean nothing—scares me more than the idea of us dating and him deciding that I’m too wild, too weird, too chaotic. Too much.

Rolling over, I attempt to avoid all of this by falling back asleep, but my cotton mouth rears its head and I’m aware I’ll need to hit the ibuprofen sooner rather than later. As soon as I stand, I feel the sickening lurch of my bad drinking decisions waking up. And my phone rings.

It’s 7:17, and Josh is calling.

I drop back down to the bed. “Hazel’s Den of Sin,” I answer in a dry rasp.

“Hey, Haze.”

My throat tightens at the deep vibration of his voice, at the memory of his words last night:

You feel as soft as you look.

Ah, fuck. You’re wet. It’s good. It’s so good . . .

Oh, God, I’m coming so hard.

“Hey . . . you.”

Josh clears his throat, and I’m realizing we’ve seen each other naked. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because all he can manage is “So.”

I laugh, and it sounds like a screech. “So.”

“I hope . . . you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my bare legs. There’s a bruise on my knee, and my tailbone is a little sore from the unrelenting reality of being fucked against the wood floor, but other than that, I’m intact. “I’m good.”

“And we’re okay?”

Nodding, I rush to reassure him. “I’m your best friend, Hazel. Of course. We agreed just once. We’re perfect.”

I understand the relief in his slow exhale. “Good. Good.” He pauses and I hear him inhale like he’s going to speak, but then the quiet stretches into five, ten, fifteen throbbing seconds. I like to think I’m more confident than the average person, but his silence makes tiny bubbles of insecurity rise