Page 86 of Love Sick

My fingers clench on hers.

She doesn’t mean that, does she? Am I not just the nerdy boy upstairs who studies with her sometimes?

And she wants my hands under her dress.

She wants my hands on her body.

She’s drunk.

What the hell kind of torture is this? How drunk is she really?

Drunk enough, obviously.

I doubt Sober Grace would ever have the courage to say these things to me, but suddenly, I’m craving it, longing for it—her clearheaded words, declaring she wants me.

God, I want to fuck her against the wall behind her. Just hike that dress to her waist and wrap her legs around me. Dirty and gritty and hot. I release her hand instead. “You’re going to regret saying that in the morning.”

With a secretive smile, she stretches to her tiptoes and devil-red lips press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Good night, Julian.”

Her scent lingers as she draws away, curling around pleasure centers in my brain. My heart stops because there’s no blood left for it, and my world laser-focuses on the woman walking away from me. I want to go after her. I want to run away.

I want her.

It’s been stalking me. For months, the fascination has shortened its leash, grown tighter about my neck. I’ve told myself she’s annoying, judgmental and so high strung she probably wouldn’t climax even with my best moves, but it’s all bullshit. Lies I tell myself because she’s climbed her way onto some pedestal in my head. One I’ll never rise to. It lingers above my reach, untouchable.

She’s too good for me, but she still wants my hands on her body, and one day soon, I’ll convince her to admit it.

She wants me to work for it? I’ll work for it.

Cold showers are the devil’s favorite torment, but I refuse to jack off to Drunk Grace, and that’s exactly where my mind will go, so I settle for lukewarm. I torture my toothbrush with excessive toothpaste and violent brushing, pausing when I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Devil-red lips have survived my shower, tattooed across my cheek, a brand for all to see. I pull out my phone and snap a selfie, then hide that picture in a locked album because someday, I’ll want proof that Grace Rose dropped her guard enough to touch her lips to my body.

Grace

NOVEMBER YEAR 2

Head pounding, I wish death on the delivery person rapping on my door. I’d told them to leave the food on the mat. Piles of blankets tumble to the floor as I stagger to my feet and yank the door open.

Julian’s head lifts, the no-smile firmly in place, and he’s put together as always. His hair is expertly styled, and his idiotic glasses that arenotattractive perch on his nose. I fantasize about pulling on the strings of his black hoodie.

Not to bring him closer. No. To strangle him.

The door catches my weight when I sag against it. “I thought you were DoorDash.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Waiting for him to explain this intrusion into my hangover, I raise my eyebrows at him. “Is there something you want?”

A crooked smile enhances his stupid face, like a half-second glow up.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “What?”

He studies me a moment, his head tilting. “You—you don’t remember, do you?”

My spine snaps straight as a fresh wave of nerves tingles over every surface. “What? Why would you say that? What did I do?” Oh god. What if I said something embarrassing? What if Ididsomething?

This is why you don’t join in when people are doing shots, Grace!

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