Page 45

“Is that the next,” he pauses and swallows hard, “step?”

No. It’s probably a few steps forward. Past kissing, even.

“Yes,” I say.

He nods. “Okay. We can try it.”

I almost changed my mind.

He’s been out with Christine most of the day, so we haven’t talked about it. I take a shower so I smell good and put on some cologne and deodorant, and leave my shirt off. Then I second-guess it and pull one on. Then I take it off again. The third time I stand in front of the closet as if it gets a vote in my internal battle.

I already got myself off in the shower, so I should be good when he gets here. But the tension is already building inside of me again, like my body missed the memo that this is fake.

I sit on my bed. I stand up, restless. I pick his picture up again and put it down without letting myself look at it longer than a second, because I’m not doing that again. I check my phone. Nothing from him. A text from Eli about a new pie at Nana’s and a message from a puck bunny I don’t remember giving my number.

The door lock turns, and I freeze with my shirt still in my hand, which is probably the worst of both options.

Quinn comes in, his cheeks are bright with the cold from outside, and he’s talking before he looks at me. “Christine says I have to eat real food tomorrow or she’s⁠—”

He stops.

His eyes run over my chest, then my face, then the shirt in my hand.

“Hi,” I say, like I’m not super nervous about what we are going to do.

“Hi.” His backpack slides off one shoulder, and he catches it. “You, um…forgot a shirt.” He points at my chest as if that’s all the proof he needs that he’s right.

“I didn’t forget.” I hear how that sounds, and I huff. “I mean, I was deciding. It’s hot in here. You turned the heat on again. And if we are going to be close…”

He glances at the thermostat then back at me.

“If you want me to, I’ll put it on.” I hold it up like a peace offering.

“Will it be easier if you don’t?”

Easier? I mean, yeah, if the goal is me getting hard in the first thirty seconds, it will be extremely easy. I shrug as if it’s not a big deal. “Either way.”

“Okay, you can keep it off.”

I toss the shirt into the closet and move over to his bed and sit down. “Come here, then,” I tell him, patting the spot next to me.

He sets his bag down next to his desk, squares it up, and wipes his hands on his jeans. He crosses the small space as if the floor might be quicksand and then sits next to me, not quite touching.

“You can pick where to start. I’ll tell you if something works.”

He eyes my chest, and I try not to flex my abs so they look more defined. He lifts his hand and reaches out and touches my shoulder at the dip that meets the collarbone. Then he doesn’t move.

His hand is so warm as it sits on my skin I have to lock my jaw. But I wait for him.

“I don’t think this angle is a good angle,” he says finally. And before I can say anything, he swings his left leg over mine and straddles my hips.

Fuck me. I suck in a breath as he settles on me. Heat. The seam of his jeans right where I’m already losing this battle.

“Is this okay?”

I’m pretty sure my brain has just short-circuited. He doesn’t need a lesson in how to turn someone on because yep, that did it.

I swallow and find English. “Yes. That’s—yes. Warn a guy next time.”