And then—no warning—she palms me through my joggers. Full contact. Bold as hell.
My brain shorts out.Holy. Shit. My grip on the laundry basket slips.
“Better?” She grins like she owns me. I told her so, and it’s looking like she’s starting to believe it. I think I like it. I really fucking like it.
“Not helpful,” I manage, jaw tight, because it’s eitherthat or groan loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
Her hand’s still right there, gripping my junk— Ohgod.My body’s making itveryobvious how much it likes this.
“Harper! Caleb!” Mom’s voice floats down from upstairs. Cheerful. Clueless.
“Down here!” Harper calls back, sing-song sweet, while giving my cock a squeeze through the fabric of my shorts. “Doing laundry!”
I jerk back and swing the laundry basket in front of my body like it’s a riot shield, neck burning with embarrassment. Harper just bends down—innocent as you please—and picks up the shirt that started all this. That one piece of cotton might as well be Exhibit A in my trial for losing control.
My voice is low. “We can’t do that again?—”
Not because I don’t want to. But because if we do, it will be ten times harder to stop.
“I know.” But she’s biting her lip, and I hear myself add, “—here.”
Her eyes spark. “Really?”
She’s wrecked and hopeful all at once, like she’s already picturing the next time. My body answers before my brain does. Thank God for the basket.
“If they’d walked in five minutes later—” I try, reaching for a reason I don’t actually believe.
“They didn’t.” She lays her hands over mine on the basket. Steady. Certain. “Besides, worth it.”
Two words. That’s all it takes.
The fear, the guilt, the chaos—it all gets shoved aside because she means it.
Worth it.
Truer words have never been spoken.
She’s worth it. She thinksI’mworth it. And whatever this is between us is definitely worth it. Whatever it takes.
“Tomorrow’s your birthday,” I whisper, flipping my hand over and squeezing her fingers with mine.
Footsteps on the stairs now. Closer.
I see the conflict hit her face. She looks devastated. “I’ll come to your room tonight,” she whispers before turning back to the dryer, shields back up her casual, give-no-fucks mask on, like I didn’t just have her legs locked around my waist, her gasping my name with a vulnerability that breaks through all the armor she wears the rest of the time. How does she do that—flip the switch in two seconds flat?
Before I can answer, Mom appears in the doorway, smiling like this is just another Saturday.
“There you two are! How’s it going down here?”
“Great!” Harper chirps. “Caleb was helping me reach something in the washer.”
Not even technically a lie.
Mom beams. “I love how well you two are getting along.”
I try not to swallow my tongue. Yeah. You haveno idea.
Harper glances at me over her shoulder, eyes glittering with suppressed laughter—and something else. Something sharper.