Page 14 of Midnight Snack

Gracie: But he’s so pretty. Can’t you focus on the competition and then play with him when cameras aren’t rolling?

ME: Cameras are always rolling.

Gracie: Not in the bedrooms.

Kelsie: Horny much?

Gracie: Often.

Kelsie: What has you all riled up tonight? You’re like a teenage boy.

Kelsie: Wait, weren’t you at Ace’s earlier?

Kelsie: Yeah, I know you were because Henry texted me to say he saw you there.

Gracie: Your brother needs to mind his own business.

Kelsie: Were you dancing with someone?

Kelsie: Tell me!

Gracie: We are talking about Caroline right now, Kels. Focus.

ME: It’s actually time for me to unpack and get settled so I can get a good night’s sleep.

Gracie: Boring!

chapter

eight

Caroline

“Come on, Sweetness, lick it right off my body,” Damien says.

The line of whipped cream snakes down between his pecs and his perfect washboard abs. I lean down but before I reach his stomach, his hand catches my face and he pulls me in for a kiss. Now we’re pressed together. The whipped cream slides between our naked skin.

Our kiss is deep, slow and all-consuming.

“Damien, please,” I whimper. I need him. Anywhere. Everywhere. My body is desperate for his touch.

“Caroline, you drive me fucking crazy. You don’t know how much I want you. How much I crave you.”

“Yes. Have me. Please. Just make the ache go away.”

I wake to a knock on my door.

My skin still feels feverish, and my clit is throbbing, my nipples tight peaks. Oh my gosh! I was just having a sexy dream about him. I don’t think I’ve ever even had one of those.

Another knock and it takes a minute for me to remember where I am. I’m in the cabin for the show. Which means it’s more than likely him on the other side of my bedroom door.

I sit up and try to position myself against the pillows. I pull my thick braid over my shoulder to cover some of my skin. While I am not anywhere near being naked, my jammie tank is low cut and fits like a second skin. Nothing is more annoying than trying to move in a bed and have your clothes get tangled and bunched and twisted in the covers.

“Uh, come in,” I say. My voice sounds weird and husky to my ears. I try clearing my throat.

Damien opens the door and comes in. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, but it’s the plate in his hand that catches my attention.

He gives me one of those lopsided grins that I’d swear was practiced. But it looks too self-effacing and honest.