Page 19 of Riding the Pine

“You’re a real dumbass, Scott Raine, you know that? Do you know how stupid it is to get drunk like this on your first week of school?”

He grins at me so wide my knees would go weak if they weren’t the only thing keeping us both upright. Shit, he’s a handsome man, and the closer I am to him the more he sets my soul on fire.

He’s so close to me it would be easy to close the distance and kiss him. He’s likely so far gone he wouldn’t remember it either.

As though he’s feeling the undeniable pull toward me too, his spaced-out gaze flickers to my lips as he licks his.

“Fuck, Bright Eyes.” He tries to push back from me, stumbling through his door, and I rush to catch him right as he clips his elbow on a set of drawers. “You need to leave.”

I shake my head. “I will once you’re safely in bed and no longer a danger to yourself or others.” I force my voice to stay light and make myself smile while my insides turn to molten lava.

He waggles his brows at me. “You really want me to get into bed?” He’s already kicking his shoes off, but he catches the hem of his shirt and drags it up the length of his very, very, clearly defined torso.

The torture doesn’t stop because his hands get tangled in the shirt above his head, so I get a few bonus seconds to commit every valley of his abs to memory before he wins the battle with the fabric and the item of clothing falls to the floor.

I suck in a sharp breath we both hear because his smile falters and something flickers in his eyes, something dangerous, a yearning, a need, a deeply buried desire to act on the impulse that’s tenting his sweats.

Fuck.

This was a bad, bad plan.

He’s standing in his room, heart racing, breath heavy, and his chest bare, an almost entirely blank canvas for me to drag my nails down and make him hiss.

He shimmies the sweats off revealing a very naked semi-hard cock. Someone’s brave when he’s drunk.

Brave, stupid, there’s a fine line.

He gives me a wicked grin, wild want simmering in his eyes as he kicks his pants off his bare feet and turns to open the blankets of his bed.

Something catches my eye on his sculpted pec, over his heart, a tattoo. I take two steps toward him to see if I can make out what it is. I had no idea he had ink and now I want to trace my fingers around whatever it is.

Within seconds, he’s in bed and covered with the blanket, but I’ve already seen that he’s naked under there. The image is seared into my brain forever. Scott Raine has a beautiful dick—well, as pretty as trouser snakes go anyway. Sculptors should turn him into a marble statue.

I sit on the edge of his bed, brushing his wayward hair from his forehead, soaking up every single last second of being in his space like this. It feels unfair, unbalanced. There’s every chance he won’t remember this intimate moment between us, and all I want is for it to stretch out between us forever.

A peaceful sigh heaves out of his body as he relaxes into the mattress. He blinks slow, heavy blinks as his eyes struggle to focus on me.

“Not quite what I thought having you in my bedroom would be like, Bright Eyes.” He’s whispering like he’s afraid if he speaks louder, the bubble will burst. In truth, so am I. I cast a glimpse at the door to make sure no one has realized I’m missing and comes to find me.

“Shhhhh.” I trace my fingers down the side of his face, making him hum. “Get some sleep, Gizmo. I’ll bring you some water for the morning before I leave, okay?”

He blinks up at me again. It’s taking every ounce of strength in my body not to kiss this man where he lies. The only thing stopping me is the fact he’s fucked. He’s so drunk he can’t really consent to anything. Otherwise, I’d have kissed him senseless the second we got up the stairs.

The flare of danger flickers again between us, and he stares at my lips. Reaching out his hand his thumb brushes across my bottom lip. “Athena.” My name’s a prayer on his lips, a word so precious, so cherished and revered.

“I’m here, Scott.”

His face contorts into a thousand splinters of pain as he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be. I’m not good.”

I snort, shushing him again. “I call bullshit,” I whisper.

When his eyes snap open again, he pins me with a look so full of the deepest, raw agony I’ve ever seen on someone’s face. “It’s so hard, Bright Eyes.”

His eyes fill with tears like he’s struggling in physical pain.

“What’s wrong?” I check his face, his head, his arms for any sign of injury.

His heavy eyelids fall closed and for a moment I think he’s fallen asleep until he grunts, a pained sound echoing around the quiet space. “Having to pretend I’m not in love with you.”

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