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“No.” I squirmed as his warm hand slid over my bare stomach where my tank top had ridden up. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t say another word, his body relaxing. He’d fallen asleep again. I wondered if he’d been fully awake to start with.
I sighed, deflating.
I couldn’t sleep with Cyn holding me. But even as the thought crossed my mind, the potent scent of cedarwood wrapped around me, already soothing my restlessness.
Sometime later, I woke again to Cyn’s hand trailing over my stomach, sliding higher beneath my tank top. “Cyn,” I mumbled, hoping to stir him enough that he’d stop and go back to sleep.
He didn’t stop.
My breath hitched when his hand cupped my breast and squeezed. I couldn’t stop my moan when his fingers brushed my nipples as he continued his exploration. My eyelids fluttered open, and I tried to look over my shoulder at him, but he buried his face against my neck, his breath ghosting across my skin.
He pressed against my backside, and the ridge of his cock slid against the thin fabric of my pants when he rolled his hips.
I couldn’t let this happen—even if it felt good. He wasn’t aware of what he was doing. If he woke up and found us like this, I didn’t know what he’d do. I didn’t want to find out.
I reached over and placed my hand on his hip, trying to push him away. It didn’t work. He pressed tighter, pinching my nipple as if to punish me, making me yelp.
I tried to wriggle free.
Maya would let me sleep with her. Snoring be damned.
With Ash heavy on my mind, Zeke’s pleading eyes, and the tension downstairs, I’d taken the easier route and climbed right into bed with two men.
What was I thinking?
I tried to get up, but Cyn caught me, hugging me tightly to him.
His right hand fumbled to work my tank top over my breasts, while his left hand massaged them until I panted and squeezed my thighs together.
“Cyn, please,” I pleaded, trying not to moan.
I didn’t want Zeke to wake up and find Cyn touching me like this. I couldn’t ruin what existed between them.
Cyn’s left hand traveled down my stomach, while his right continued to twist and pull at my sensitive nipple. He grumbled when he reached the waistband of my pajama pants, trying to work his way inside, but struggling in his half-conscious state.
I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip hard to keep silent when he finally figured it out and touched my aching core, sliding his fingers through my wetness.
He moved lower, sliding two fingers inside, pressing the heel of his palm against my clit.
I cried out when his blunt teeth bit into my shoulder.
He froze, no longer groping, fingering, or rocking against me, though he didn’t remove his hands.
My heart thrashed in my chest like a butterfly trapped in a jar.
He cursed softly, his forehead pressing against my spine.
Still, he didn’t move.
When I wriggled, trying to extract myself from his embrace and off his fingers now that he was fully awake, he whispered in my ear, “Don’t move.”
His voice—a low rasp from sleep, strained with arousal—made heat pool in my core.
“I need to get up,” I whispered, clarity returning now that he’d stopped moving his fingers.
“Why?”
