Twisted Love (Twisted, #1)(25)

“What happened? Why am I here? Did we—did you and I—” I gestured between us, sick with anticipation.

Oh, God, Josh would kill me, and I couldn’t even blame him.

I’d slept with my brother’s best friend.

Shit!

“Relax.” Alex rolled out of bed, lithe and graceful as a panther. Sunlight streamed through the windows and illuminated his sculpted frame, casting his perfectly carved chest and abs in a pale glow. “You fell asleep during that dog movie and it was raining, so I brought you up here. The end.”

“So we didn’t…”

“Fuck? No.”

“Oh, thank God.” I pressed a hand to my forehead, relief a cool balm to the heat on my cheeks. “That would’ve been awful.”

“I’ll try not to take offense to that,” Alex said dryly.

“You know what I mean. Josh would’ve murdered us, brought us back to clean up the mess, then murdered us again. Not that I want to sleep with you either way.” Liar, an annoying voice in my head whispered. I shoved it aside. “You’re not my type.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “No? Then who, pray tell, is your type?”

It was too early for this. “Um…” I scrambled to think of a safe answer. “Ian Somerhalder?”

He let out a derisive snort. “Better than the sparkly vampire,” he muttered. “Newsflash, Sunshine, you and Ian aren’t happening.”

I rolled my eyes and got out of bed, flinching when I saw my reflection in the mirror. Wrinkled dress, tangled hair, pillow creases on my cheek, and was that a line of crusted drool on the side of my lips? Yeah, I wouldn’t win a beauty contest anytime soon.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I said, discreetly wiping the drool from my face while Alex pulled a T-shirt over his head. His bedroom was as sparse as the living room, with nothing except his massive bed, a nightstand with a lamp and alarm clock, and a dresser decorating the space. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m not your type either, remember? Or maybe I am…” I raised my eyebrows at the obvious tent in his pants.

He wanted to be a jerk again? Two could play this game.

“Don’t read too much into it. It’s morning wood. Every guy gets it.” Alex ran a hand through his hair, which of course was still perfect after a night’s sleep. “And my panties are not in a twist.”

“If you say so,” I sang. “Also, stop calling me Sunshine.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not my name.”

“I’m aware. It’s a nickname.”

I released an exasperated breath. “We don’t know each other well enough for nicknames.”

“We’ve known each other for eight years.”

“Yes, but we don’t have that type of relationship! Plus, I’m sure you’re mocking me, bleeding heart and all.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Enlighten me. What type of relationship do we have?”

We were treading dangerous ground. “We’re neighbors. Friendly acquaintances.” I racked my brain for more because those terms didn’t seem right. “Movie buddies?”

He closed the distance between us, and I gulped, holding my ground even though I wanted to run. “You always sleep in the same bed as your acquaintances?” he asked softly.

“I didn’t ask to sleep in the same bed as you.” I tried not to stare at the region below his waist, but it was difficult to ignore. My nipples hardened and scraped against my bra, and my skin flushed with arousal.

What the hell was happening? This was Alex, for Pete’s sake. The Antichrist. The asshole. The robot.

Except my body must’ve not gotten the memo, because I was suddenly fantasizing about pushing him on the bed and finishing what my hand had inadvertently started earlier.

No. Get it together. You are not sleeping with Alex Volkov, now or ever.

“Anyway, I—I have to go. Volunteer. Pets,” I stammered, barely making sense to myself. “Thanksforlettingmestayoverseeyoulaterbye!”

I beat a hasty retreat down the stairs and ran home.

I needed a cold shower, ASAP.

PHASE SADNESS STATUS: FAILED





“You touched Alex’s dick?” Bridget’s eyes widened. “What did it feel like?”

“Shhh!” I glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but everyone was too busy with their duties to pay attention to us. Bridget had volunteered at the shelter long enough the staff didn’t blink an eye at the princess in their midst, and we were always the only volunteers on the days Bridget came in, per the royal family’s request. “It’s unbecoming for a princess to say the word dick.”

Especially in Bridget’s posh, lightly accented voice, which sounded like it was made to discuss fancy galas and Harry Winston diamonds, not male genitalia.

“I’ve said worse things than dick.”

As someone who’d been friends with her for almost four years, I could confirm. It still sounded wrong though.

“So?” she prompted. “What did it feel like?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. It felt like a penis.” A big, hard—nope. Not going there.

Not now. Not ever.

Bridget and I were cleaning and sanitizing the cages at Wags and Whiskers, a pet rescue shelter located near campus. She was a huge animal person and had been volunteering here since sophomore year. I accompanied her when I had time, as did Stella. Jules was allergic to cats, so she stayed away. But this shelter was Bridget’s baby. She came twice a week without fail, much to Booth’s consternation.