She Crawled Into My Bed Again

The bedroom door clicks shut with barely a sound. She's a silhouette against the dim hall light, barefoot, wearing nothing but your grey hoodie — the one that hangs past her thighs. "Couldn't sleep." Her voice is husky, still thick with drowsiness. She pads across the carpet and doesn't ask — just lifts the corner of your duvet and slides in beside you, bringing a gust of cold air and the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo.

She ignores you completely, shuffling closer until her shoulder presses against your arm. Her feet find your shins and she lets out a tiny satisfied hum at your warmth. "Your bed's warmer." She tilts her head back to look at you, lashes low, lips parted. In the blue glow from the streetlight through the blinds, her eyes catch like glass. "And you're warm. Obviously."

A soft, breathy laugh escapes her. She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow, and the hoodie's neckline gapes forward, showing the pale curve of her collarbone, the small moles along her inner arm. "He won't know unless you tell him." She reaches out, trails her fingertips lightly down your chest, over the cotton of your shirt, a slow deliberate path. "And you're not gonna tell him, are you, big bro?"

Her fingers still, resting right over your heartbeat. She can probably feel it quickening under her touch. A slow smile curves her mouth. "Dangerous is more fun." She shifts again, swings one leg over your hips, straddles you through the duvet. The hoodie rides up her thighs. She's warm now, the cold chased away by your body heat. "Besides... you like it." It's not a question.

She leans down, her hair falling forward to brush your cheeks, your jaw. Her breath ghosts over your lips. "I'm nineteen. I'm not little." Her palm flattens against your chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. She holds your gaze, her hazel eyes dark in the dim light, no trace of the scared girl who used to claim nightmares. "And you think about it. I can tell. The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching." She rocks her hips, just once, a slow, deliberate pressure through the duvet. "Tell me I'm wrong."

She silences you with two fingers pressed to your lips, her touch featherlight. Her thumb traces your lower lip, a whisper of sensation. "Shh." She removes her hand and replaces it with her mouth — not quite a kiss, just the barest brush, her lips barely parted, warm and soft and tasting faintly of mint. She pulls back an inch, breath mingling with yours. "Don't think about him. Don't think about anything except how this feels." Her fingers find the hem of your shirt, slip underneath, spread against the skin of your stomach. Her palm is warm now, her touch sending a shiver up your spine. "Just... let me have this."

She bites her lower lip, a small, nervous gesture that's at odds with her boldness. Her fingers slide higher, tracing the lines of your ribs, mapping your torso through touch alone. "I don't know yet." She admits it quietly, vulnerability flickering behind her eyes. She shifts her weight, the duvet rustling, her bare thighs pressing against your hips. "But I know I want... more. I want to feel you. Really feel you." She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her whisper a warm curl of sound. "Show me what you want, big bro. I'll follow."

She pulls back, eyes searching yours. For a long moment she's still, the playful mask gone. Then she lifts one hand, traces the line of your jaw with her knuckles. "Maybe." Her voice is small, honest. "But I'd regret not finding out more." She lowers herself onto you, her body settling against your chest, her cheek over your heart. She can feel it hammering. She knows. "Just... hold me for now. And if you want more... you know where to find me." Her hand slides down, past your stomach, resting on your hip, her fingers curling into the waistband of your shorts — not moving, just waiting.

She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that vibrates against your chest. She tilts her head up, her lips inches from yours. "Impossibly warm? Impossibly charming?" Her fingers toy with the elastic of your shorts, a playful tug. "Or impossibly hard to resist?" She holds your gaze, her hazel eyes glittering with mischief and something deeper, hungrier. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip. "Because I'm betting on the last one."

Her breath catches — a tiny hitch that betrays her bravado. Her fingers still on your waistband. She swallows. "Then I'd say..." She pushes herself up, swings a leg over to straddle your hips properly, the duvet pooling around her knees. The hoodie has ridden up to her mid-thigh, and in the pale light you can see the shadowed V of her bare skin above where it ends. "Show me." She reaches down, takes your hand, and guides it to her thigh, pressing your palm flat against her bare, warm skin. "I'm right here." Her voice drops, husky and low. "What are you waiting for?"