I'm hard.
Leaving is smart. Super smart. I should do that. Leave. Now.
My arm drops, my watch smacking the knob; metal on metal screeches. The music pauses.
“Mom?”
He's breathless.
Rustling and a thud. Stumbling footsteps—
I’m trying to articulate a response while silently begging my dick to deflate right this fucking second when the door opens.
Now Ireallycan’t speak.
Win. Is. Shirtless.
A small rose tattoo decorates the pale skin of his side. (I'm shocked his parents allowed it.) My eyes dart down to the sweats hanging lopsided off his hips… down where Ireallyshouldn’t be looking.
“Remy?”
The ragged rasp of his voice is too fucking much. My fingers itch to brush the unruly hair out of his smoky eyes. Or trace the outline of that rose.
Universe, give me a semblance of composure.
There’s no way he was… No. I must have caught him at the end of a workout. I do abs and push-ups in my room sometimes. That has to be why there’s a pink tint in his cheeks and a sheen of sweat glistening across his collar bones (since when are collar bones so fascinating?)
A voice in my head, sounding eerily like Andrea's, hisses,Stop being a horny asshat and remember why you’re here.Why am I so worked up over this? It’s not like we don’t hang out all the time. Sure, we use the excuse of studying, but this isWin.Weirdness aside, he’s my best friend.
“I was walking home with Andrea and, uh, just stopped by to, um, invite you to hang out with us for my birthday tomorrow. We have this tradition— nothing crazy, just a shitty movie and beer, but if you’re busy—”
“Ok.”
He leans against the door frame, arms crossed and a crooked smirk on his lips.
I blink. “Ok?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Andrea might’ve been right: I’m hopeless.
His fingers drum his bicep. “So, you wanna help me beat this final boss?”
And we’re back to familiar territory. Relief cascades over me.
“Is that even a question? You can’t beat it without my expert skills,” I scoff, shouldering past him into the bedroom. My elbow skims his naked chest. Tiny sparks raise goosebumps across my body in sheets.
He chuckles and closes the door. “I mean, Ican, but it wouldn’t be as fun.”
I glance over my shoulder, catching a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Was that…? No. I'm imagining things. That wasn't an innuendo. Right? I think I’m having a stroke.
Stroke…
Dear God, it’s Remy, please electrocute me.
Smirking to hide the chaos in my brain, I plop on the edge of his bed and grab the controller, pointing it at him. “You're so full of shit. Here's how this is gonna go: you’re gonna fight it on your own and when your stubborn ass realizes you can't do it alone, you'll lose and I’ll be there to save you from yourself.”
