Page 204 of Faking the Goal

"Fine." I sigh and lie down beside her. "But you're going to sleep."

"Mmhmm."

That agreement lasts maybe five seconds.

One second she's lying beside me.

The next, she's on top of me.

I freeze.

Completely.

Taylor straddles my hips, looking down at me with half-lidded eyes and a lazy little smile that immediately sends every rational thought in my head straight to hell.

What the fuck?

"I'm horny." She reaches for the hem of her shirt again.

For fuck's sake.

Of all the things she could have said tonight, she somehow lands on the exact combination of words guaranteed to send every thought in my head straight into the gutter.

"Trouble."

"I'm really horny," she clarifies, as though perhaps the problem here was insufficient information. She starts tugging her shirt upward. "And you have to help me."

I stare at her for one catastrophic second too long.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

The woman I've completely fallen for is sitting on top of me, trying to take her clothes off while outright telling me she wants to have sex with me. Every part of my body is very enthusiastically in favor of giving her exactly what she's asking for, and somehow I'm supposed to ignore all of that and remember that one of us needs to have some fucking sense right now.

Apparently, that person is me.

Fucking fantastic.

Because I want her.

God, do I fucking want her.

Having her like this—on top of me, looking at me like that, practically offering me everything I've spent weeks trying not to think about—is a level of torture I'm not remotely prepared for. But she's drunk. Really fucking drunk. And no matter how badly I want her, there's a very big difference between Taylor wanting me and drunk Taylor wanting me, and I'm not touching that line with a ten-foot fucking pole.

"Okay. Nope."

I catch her hands before she can get the shirt any higher and roll us, getting her off me before she can make this any fucking harder than it already is. It takes more effort than it should considering I've got nearly a foot and probably a hundred pounds on her, but drunk Taylor apparently possesses the determination of a woman fighting for her constitutional right to get naked. Eventually, I manage to get her onto her side with her back against my chest, one arm wrapped firmly around her middle.

There.

Problem solved.

Her hand immediately goes for her shirt again.

Jesus Christ.

I catch her wrist and pull it back down. She tries the other hand. I catch that one too. Then she starts twisting around inside my arms like she genuinely believes her tiny drunk ass is going to overpower me through sheer determination.

"Stop taking your clothes off, trouble."