“I have resting stress face.”
“T’as des beaux yeux.”
“What?”
“No, you don’t.”
I remember enough of school French to know he absolutely did not say that. But I’m distracted by the arch of his neck as he stretches it, and that overwhelming need to kiss him there.
Resisting takes a marathon effort and a hassled sigh escapes me.
Tam cocks his head. “What are you thinking?”
“Thinking?”
“You have a hundred thoughts raging in your head. I can see them.”
“Then you should already know what I’m thinking.”
“Be better if you told me.”
“Why?”
Tam licks sugary icing from his thumb. “Lots of reasons. You want them all?”
“Give me one.”
“It’s a selfish fucking reason.”
“Selfish of me?”
“Fuck. No. Definitelyme.” He’s suddenly closer again. “But you’re a tough crowd for bullshit so I’m going to tell you anyway.”
I wait.
He cracks his knuckles and shrugs. “I was thinking about you fucking me and feeling guilty about it. So I was wondering if that missile in your jeans means you’ve been thinking about it too.”
I choke on my tea. “Me fucking you?”
“What makes you say it like that?”
“Er…” But that’s it. I have nothing else coherent. Just a thousandmorewild thoughts fighting for dominance in my already crowded brain, and none of them do the cramped space in my jeans any favours. “I was thinking aboutyoufucking me,” I eventually admit. “I haven’t topped in a long time.”
“Me either.”
It shouldn’t surprise me. I know better than to judge a man’s sexual preference by how he looks. But I do it anyway and my head spins off my shoulders. “Thanks for the new imagery.”
Tam laughs. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re never going to fuck, eh? We won’t have to fight over it.”
“You’re wrong,” I say slowly.
As slowly as Tam’s dark brow edges up. “Wrong about what?”
“The bit about fighting over it.” I press my fist to his thigh and rise, knowing I really do need to leave before I combust. “Because ifwewere fucking? Trust me, I’d make an exception.”
Eleven
TAM
