Pulling myself off Jack was, without a doubt, one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I was new to the whole concept of sleeping in the same bed as a man, let alone waking up sprawled across him like some kind of desperate koala. I’d read enough romance novels and overheard enough whispered conversations to know that men didn’t always have control over their morning erections. It was a physiological response, nothing personal. But that didn’t make the situation any less mortifying.
Yet, despite my embarrassment, there was a tiny, insistent part of me that wanted it to be because of me—because of my body, my presence. I wanted to believe I could have that kind of effect on him, that I could make him lose control just by existing in his orbit. In the stories I loved so much, men lik
