“What are you guys doing?” Seth’s voice makes me jump.
My hand flies to my chest as my heart stutters back to a normal pace.
Seth’s head swivels back and forth between us, assessing the charged mood and taking in the book in Logan’s hands. “You’re reading erotic poetry? Together? In the living room?”
I snatch the book from Logan, covering the title with my shaking hand. Energy throbs through my veins at being caught, of pushing Logan to do something a little naughty. My skin feels warm, and everything looks brighter.
“It’s history,” I exclaim. “And literature! We’re being classy, Seth. Refined. Look, Logan’s even twirling his mustache.”
Logan raises a brow. I feel high, and I think my voice gives it away.
“Pretty sure mustache-twirling’s for villains about to tie a fainting woman to a train track,” Logan says.
“Fine. Twirl your cane then. Or your cigar. Every refined man has at least one of those. Don’t tell me you don’t?”
“Of course I do. But I’m not sure how you decided twirlingepitomizes refinement.”
“It does.” I twirl a strand of hair around my trembling fingers. His eyes track the movement, and suddenly, this feels too intimate. I release my hair and clear my throat. “See? Can’t get more elegant than that.”
“Okay, you weirdos,” mutters Seth. “I’m going to go to bed.” He runs his hands through his hair and gives Logan a look that makes him squirm a little.
Seth gives me a quick once-over before turning away, his expression unreadable except for the faint tightening around his jaw. This, in turn, makesmesquirm a little. He’s been cool in that quiet, polite way that’s somehow worse than outright anger. No amount of charm on my part seems to thaw him. It’s clear that Seth is not thrilled that I am back.
I can’t blame him. From the outside, it must look like history repeating itself—the infamous seductress of yore, back to her old tricks.
The doorbell rings. Pizza’s here.
“Let’s watch that show we started last night,” I say quickly. I don’t trust myself to sit through another poem.
We settle into companionable silence as we devour the pizza and addictive show.
But then he doesn’t rush away after we clean up, and I can’t bring myself to hurry either. Is it my imagination, or do his eyes linger more than usual? My eyes do. His very presence seems to draw my gaze, as if a subtle luminescence has lit up his skin.
Then we are standing in the hallway outside our bedrooms. I can’t tell who escorted whom. I look up at him, licking my lips and parting them in a way that I know drives guys crazy.
“Sierra,” he says in his deep voice.
My breath hitches. Is he going to demand sex since I provoked him earlier? I lose my nerve and take a small step back.
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t close the gap. “Sleep well,” he says. Then he steps into his bedroom and closes the door.
I step inside and force myself to close the door behind me. On the other side of the wall, I imagine him undressing, the cotton shirt sliding up over her chest, the jeans skimming down his legs. His boxers dropping.
I press my head against the cool, painted wood of my door, trying not to spiral.
I loved him so much when we were kids.
I was lost from the beginning. He gave me all the attention and affection I couldn’t find elsewhere, looking at me as if he could truly see me and rescuing me from both my bad home life and myself. The rest of the world was gray and uncomfortable; he was clear light and warmth.
After I hit puberty, it left me senseless with desires I couldn’t control. As soon as Logan noticed me as more than just a friend, I handed him every one of my firsts without a moment of hesitation—first kiss, first romantic relationship, first sexual experience. I would have offered him my soul if I thought he wanted it even a little. Scraped it out and presented it without any fanfare.Take it, take it, take it. I’m yours.
I liked it when he was a little mean. He treated me like he was entitled to anything he wanted from me, and I was more than willing to give him everything. I wanted him to chase me and punish me with rough sex and cruel words. It felt like love. I craved it, then resented it when he hurt me.
And he hurt me a lot.
But the last time was the worst. It wasn’t dramatic or explosive—it was cold. So cold. Nothing like the hot-tempered flare-ups we’d had before.
It was stupid teenage stuff—the kind of behavior that adults exchange glances over and shake their heads at.What were you thinking?they would ask, as if logic and self-awareness were possible while drowning in hormones and with half-formed brains.
