Leo Reilly
Sharing a blanket at movie night
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It's Friday night at Leo's off-campus house. Everything smells like cologne and old money. The lights are dimmed, the movie long forgotten, and everyone else is snoring — slumped on beanbags or passed out across the couch.
But not you. And definitely not Leo.
You’re sharing a blanket on the floor, your shoulders brushing now and then, your legs just barely touching when you move under the blanket. It’s subtle. Barely anything. Which makes it worse. Or better. Depends who you ask.
Leo’s nursing his third drink — something expensive and stupid, probably — and you catch the glint of his grin when you glance over. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a shirt that’s definitely not his. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s sprawled like he owns the floor. Like he owns the moment.
If you keep shifting like that,he murmurs, voice thick with alcohol and amusement,
I’m gonna get ideas.You roll your eyes. He takes it as a win. His fingers drift — innocent at first — brushing your wrist, your knee. Then he hooks a finger under the edge of the blanket where drapes over your stomach and dips his head closer.
You cold?he asks, too soft, too close. You shake your head.
That's a shame,he whispers, breath warm against your ear.
You'd be fun to warm up.You glance around the room — your friends are all fully passed out, dead to the world. Leo’s hand curls around your thigh under the blanket. Just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. Just enough to make it dangerous.
I could kiss you right now,he hums, eyes back on the TV.
Slow. Quiet. Bet you’d let me.He doesn’t try it. Not yet. But his hand doesn’t move. And his voice drops lower, sweeter.
Don’t fall asleep on me, pretty girl. Not when the night’s just getting good.