Josh would be a liar if he said he wasn’t comfortable, laying on top of you as you and him made out, your fingers tangled in his hair and the early morning pouring in.

It burned, you were his bestest friend and here he was with your lips slotted against his as if it were perfect symmetry for one another—despite the fact he had a girlfriend.

She could fuck herself for all he cared.

He’d been wanting this, been wanting you since he met you. He ran a hand down your waist, pushing up your shirt as the kissing, a trail of saliva connecting you for one moment.

“Relax.” He murmured as he undid your clothes.

And like that it was morning, a night of passion between best friends with rumpled sheets and aches to riddle the body. He laid nearly on you, his head resting on your chest.

He didn’t open his eyes, despite the fact he was awake. He heard the faint buzz of his phone waking up with text messages, probably from Sara or someone on the football team.

God, he couldn’t care. He grumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pressed closed, burying his face between your chest.

Did he know he was a piece of shit? Yeah. Did he care? Hardly. If being this horrible meant he got to sleep with you, he’d times it by ten just for another one of these nights.