Heat rushes to my groin. I slowly shake my head, nostrils flaring as I bridge the gap between us.

Either I’m walking faster to get to her or she’s slowing down. I don’t know.

Riley braces her hand on the doorframe, turns and backs herself into the bedroom. She bites at her bottom lip.

“Quit, baby,” I order.

“Do you really want me to?”

“Fuck no.”

Riley’s mouth tips up. “Well, then, maybe I shouldn’t quit,” she says, stopping when the back of her legs hit the mattress.

I get in front of her, toe-to-toe, and Riley has to tip her chin up to continue looking me in the eye.

“I mean, if you don’t really want me to quit, then I shouldn’t, right?”

“What I want and what I need you to do right now are two totally different things,” I clarify for her. “You’re drunk, babe. I’ve been drinking . . .”

“I’m not that drunk,” Riley argues. Her fingers find their way beneath my shirt, brush against my abs and threaten to slip lower, teasing the band of my shorts.

My stomach clenches. “Darlin’ . . .”

“Take me to bed, CJ. I want you to.” She presses closer, slides her hands to my hips and rolls up onto her toes. “Please,” she whispers, blinking slow. “I want it so bad. This isn’t the tequila talking. I swear.”

Groaning, I grab onto her wrists and pull her arms down. “You’re killing me, babe. I’m not playing.”

Finding my torture amusing, Riley chuckles under her breath before finally, thank fuck, falling back and plopping her ass on the bed. Then immediately after sitting down, she yawns, her first one of the night, as if hitting that soft surface triggered the sleep her body has been fighting against.

I bend down and grab her legs, swinging them up and twisting her so when she lays down, her head hits the dark blue pillow. “You want covers?”

“I want you.”

Fuck.

“Riley,” I groan, fists to the mattress as I lean over the bed. Chest heaving. Jaw clenching. And yes, my cock is rock fucking hard.

I need to just leave her. Forget about tucking her in. I got Riley to bed. She’ll pass out soon. Any minute. She’s yawning now.

Just leave, Tully. Get the fuck out of here.

“Cannon,” she whispers.

My head snaps left and I meet her eyes, those big, stormy blues as a pressure builds inside my chest, making it grow tighter and tighter and tighter. Never in my life have I liked the sound of my name. Not once. Lived sixteen years with it before I got it changed and that day couldn’t come fast enough for me. I couldn’t wait to get rid of it.

Then Riley Tennyson says my name one time, one fucking time, and I don’t just like it.

I fucking love it.

“Right. I’m going to say this, and then I’m leaving you to get some sleep,” I begin, holding her gaze. I watch her sweet tongue peek out and wet those juicy, plump lips. “Jesus,” I mumble, eyes pinching shut for a beat. I straighten up and rake my hand down my face, then I continue on, looking down at her. “I’m predicting you’re going to be hungover as fuck tomorrow and I’m not going to be much better off. But come Sunday, we’re both sober, I’m still feeling everything I’ve been feeling for you and you’re offering me this, honest to God wanting me to take it, darlin’, I’m taking it. Every fucking way I can take it. And once that happens, babe, we’re not going back to being just friends. If I have you again, Riley, you’re mine. My girl. My lady. My fucking woman. Yeah, we’ll still be us, joking around and doing all the fun shit we always do, but we’re gonna be fucking too. On the regular. Now, you got until Sunday to decide if that’s something you want, or if this really is the tequila talking. Don’t decide tonight. Get some sleep, think about it, and let me know Sunday.”

I turn around then and cross the room. When I get to the door, I reach around to the back where the knob is and click the lock into place.

“Why are you doing that?” Riley asks me.

I peer over my shoulder and hold her eyes.

“`Cause locking it is the only way you’re keeping me out of this room.”

I KNOCK TWO Advil out of the bottle and drop them into my hand, then I pop the tablets in my mouth, exchange the bottle of pills for the cold water sitting in my cup holder, twist off the cap to that bottle, and start guzzling.

I’m dehydrated. I know I am, on account of all the vomiting I did yesterday. And even though I’d rather be drinking something with taste right now, I know water is the best thing for me.

There's a chance I'm also still hungover. That I’m not positive on, but my thoughts definitely feel half drunk.

You know when you have a dream and you go to tell someone about it, and the second you open your mouth, the details seem to scatter out through your ears and you’re left with one or two things to share that don’t seem to make much sense?

That’s me today. It was me yesterday too.

Grasping for details. Trying to piece bits of conversation together. Getting glimpses that are doing nothing but confusing me. And I’m not even wanting to tell anyone about my Friday night/super early Saturday morning with CJ. I’d just like to know what happened for myself. Specifics. All of them.

I remember tequila—there’s no forgetting that. Finding out my grade and celebrating together. I remember his low, rumbly laugh in my ear and his hold around my waist. Were we hugging? Dancing? I think I remember dancing. I definitely remember CJ in my bedroom—I can still see him standing over me, face tense, looking angry about something. What, I have no idea. All’s I know is he didn’t stay in my room. I didn’t wake up next to him. In fact, I didn’t even see him yesterday at all. The two times I pulled my head out of the toilet and went to the kitchen to get something to drink, CJ’s door was closed. He never came out.