Page 19 of Hooked on Love

I do.

The orgasm rolls through me in waves and I shudder against him. Thighs trembling on either side of him. My pussy fluttering around his still pumping fingers, guiding me through. His hand gentles but doesn’t stop, drawing every last shiver out of me while his other arm wraps around my back, holding me against his chest. Anchoring me.

When it finally crests and ebbs, I’m limp and boneless, my face tucked into the curve of his neck. His heartbeat pounds against my cheek. Fast. Unsteady.

I lift my head as his hand slips free, and nearly whimper from the loss of him. His jaw is tight and his eyes are closed like he’s in pain—or trying very hard not to be.

I reach between us, my fingers finding his belt buckle.

His hand closes around my wrist.

“Peyton.” His tone is firm, yet strained. His fingers flexing around my wrist, tightening ever so slightly.

I go still. “What’s wrong?”

He lifts my hand away and sets it against his chest, not meeting my eyes.

“I can’t.”

The warmth drains out of me until I’m left cold and exposed.

Without a word, I slide off his lap to sit beside him, tugging my skirt down, suddenly very aware of my undone state. I grip the open edges of my blouse and bring them across my chest, covering myself. What changed?

“Did I, um—” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Small and weak, but I have to ask. I can’t walk away without knowing why. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he snaps, fast and certain. He sits up, having to adjust his straining length against his worn-out jeans. “God, no. It’s not you.”

The oldest line in the world. I know it by heart. I’ve heard it before, in other apartments, from other men, and it never gets less humiliating.

“Right, uh, okay.” I stand, my legs wobbly from an apparent one-and-done, earth-shattering orgasm. And certainly not helping my current walk of shame in the slightest. “Well, um, thank you?”

What the hell am I thanking him for?

He stands quickly, but doesn’t make any move to follow me as I turn toward the hall. “Peyton.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t. “Don’t worry about it.”

I don’t run—even though I want to—I walk down the hall to my bedroom. Close the door. Lock it. Then I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark and stare at the floor, my blouse falling open as my gaze takes on a watery blur.

It’s not you.

Isn’t it?

Enough

Jake

I don’t sleep.

I lie on the couch in the dark, and every single second of it is its own special kind of torture. Because on the other side of that wall, she’s awake, too.

I know she is. I hear her moving. The soft creak of the bed, the pad of bare feet across the floor, the faint sound of water running in the bathroom at 2 AM. She’s not sleeping any better than I am, and it’s my fault, and I lie here knowing that and hating myself thoroughly for it.

It’s not you.

God, I actually said that to her. The oldest, most useless line in existence. I watched her face go from confused to humiliated to carefully, painfully neutral in the span of three seconds and I just sat there like a coward with my hands in my lap and my cock fucking weeping for her.

What the hell is wrong with me?