BECKETT
“f**k, Cupcake. Don’t—don’t move your hips please?”
“Sorry,” she mutters, shifting on the bed—and I nearly f*****g lose it.
Jesus Christ.
I bite down hard, knuckles white where I grip the edge of the mattress like it’s the only thing keeping me from snapping.
“Don’t—” My jaw ticks. “Don’t do that.”
She freezes. “Do what?”
“Move.”
Fucking hell.
I drag a hand down my face, fighting the war in my body, my chest, my f*****g soul. Watching movie with Ashley is a damn torture. I don’t think I can last another second if she keeps moving around.
“The movie’s not even scary, Ash,” I whisper, burying my face in her neck.
She smells like vanilla and something sharper—like trouble. Like I’ll follow her straight to hell.
“It’s not scary,” I repeat, voice wrecked against her skin.
