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Oh my God.

The craziest thing about it is the burning heat that immediately shoots through me, the raw need, sudden and urgent. I arch my back, pressing my ass against his erection, and he lets out a low moan, pulling me in closer against him and rocking his hips to stroke his cock against me.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Is this really happening?

He squeezes my breast, harder, rubs himself against me, closer—and then freezes. His body goes rigid behind me.

“Vince,” I whisper, not wanting him to stop, and suddenly he’s moving, leaping away from me.

“Oh my God.” His voice is wide awake, sharp with alarm.

I turn to face him. He’s sitting up in the bed. In the near-dark, I can make out that his eyes are wide open and shocked. “Vince⁠—“

“Sophie, I’m so sorry. I was asleep.”

“It’s okay⁠—”

“You should go to your room.” His voice is pure panic. “You need to—to go.”

“Vince, I⁠—”

“Sophie, I’m— Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but it comes out small and useless.

“Please just go.”

I get up out of the bed, my pajamas twisted, my body still humming with the memory of his hand on my breast, his mouth on my neck. He’s sitting up with his head in his hands, and he won’t look at me.

I go, closing his door behind me and standing in the hallway with my arms wrapped around myself.

I’ve ruined everything.

Eight

DECEMBER 23

Vince

Sophie looks terrified.

“I was asleep,” I’m telling her, the words sounding so weak coming out of my mouth that I can barely stand to hear them. “That’s the only thing I can tell you, Sophie. I was asleep, and I didn’t—I wouldn’t have⁠—”

She looks small this morning, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, her face pale. I hate that I’m the one who put that expression on her face.

She’s sitting at the kitchen island, and I’m leaning against the counter opposite her because I can’t bring myself to sit down. Can’t get any closer to her.

“That’s not an excuse,” I continue. My voice is steadier now. I’ve been practicing this in my head since about four o’clock in the morning. “It doesn’t matter if I was asleep. It’s unacceptable. I should never have let you stay in my bed, and what happened after—what I did—is completely my responsibility.”

“I wasn’t⁠—”

“Sophie, please.” I hold up a hand. “Let me finish.” I need to say this the right way. I need to be the adult in the room, because that’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always been to her. “I am deeply, deeply ashamed of myself. And I’m sorry. More sorry than I know how to express.”

“I’m not angry,” she says, her dark eyes steady on mine. “I’m not angry, Vince,” she repeats.

“Thank you,” I say, “but⁠—”

“And I’m not frightened,” she interrupts, sounding bolder now. “Not about what happened.”