“I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear about it, alright?”
I shrug, but it burns.
This whole situation burns.
And it burns me that it burns at all.
“I’m not mad if you were with someone last week. Or if Friday Night Fuck Tradition’s a real thing. It’s not my place to be mad. You can do whatever the hell you want.”
But not with your hands.
Not with your mouth.
Not with your cock.
Not with your?—
I swallow the thoughts back,
looking anywhere but at him.
“What got to me was that I was forced to imagine it.” My throat goes dry. “Some girl gettin’ used up, like she’s nothin’ but a hole, and my brain puttin’ your face on it. Picturin’youdeep inside some girl. Hands on her. Mouth on her. Fuckin’ her.”
I shake my head. “It all makes me sick.
“I don’t wanna see it.
“I don’t wanna think about it."
My gaze breaks away from him before my eyes start confessing things my mouth won’t.
Andrew throws his hand out between us.
“Hey—look at me."
I do, and his brows lift.
"I got you. And for the record?
“I feel the same fuckin’ way.”
His jaw clenches, his eyes never leaving me.
“But cut that shit right there. That ain’t me.
“You think I’d risk this, huh?"
He moves closer, voice dropping.
"The way you touch me?
“The way you fuckin’ look at me?
“For what?—
“some quick, backroom pussy? C’mon.”
A lopsided smirk flirts across his pretty mouth.
