And almost like he can read my thoughts, his eyes slide over my sweats. “What are you wearing?” The judgment is coming through thick.
“Merch,” I shoot right back.
“You paid for that?” Xander scoffs.
“Fuck no.”
Xander’s eyes skirt over the slogan.
Date, mate, or masturbate. That is the question.
It’s printed directly over my chest. I don’t want him to look away.
“Well, what is it, Ash?”
“What is what?”
“Date, mate, or masturbate,” he says. Fuck, why is it such a turn-on when he says it out loud? Is that what my mom intended?
An involuntary smile creeps across my face, which Xander takes as an invitation to hook his finger along the waistband of my sweatpants and pull me closer. I stumble the distance between us, landing right in front of him.
“Definitely not date,” I breathe out loud. Our lips are so close.
“And we’re definitely not mating,” Xander says, his hands steadying my hips. “Which leaves us with …” He doesn’t finish the sentence. His fingertips dip below my sweatpants, playing with the lacy edge of my underwear.
Fuck.
I grab onto his forearm and pull him closer to me. Encouraging him.
Suddenly, the cure to my hangover is obvious.
“Chemistry.”
He pulls his body back and I’m about to protest when he says, “That’s not an option, Ash.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the sweatshirt I’m wearing, or the conversation we had earlier about our chemistry being irreversible. What I do know is that when I look into his eyes, there’s smug amusement. He’s fucking with me.
And I am thoroughly enjoying it.
“Is our chemistry a scam too?” Xander says, low.
I swallow. I don’t speak. I don’t know.
Without another word, his hand falls away from my panties and I have to do everything in my willpower not to pout at him. His hand travels up my waist, skimming over my ribcage, up to my shoulder, and down the length of my arm until he’s holding my hand.
Then, he drags it under my sweatpants with him.
Mate. Date. Or masturbate.
And the third option is … oh.
Oh.
This is so fucking hot.
Together, our fingers glide over my underwear. The lace creates friction that I feel everywhere, but it’s not enough. I am so wound up that I slip my fingers under the lace, giving myself access to my wet, hot bare skin.
“How do you feel?” When I look at him, his usual sunburst hazel eyes now resemble aged whiskey. He’s drunk. On me.
“So good,” I say, voice raspy with want. Something flickers in his eyes and then he’s kissing me, drugging and addictive, like he can’t get enough.
