Page 124 of Jaded

I feel my brows twist across my forehead. “Is that . . . healthy?”

“Eh.” He lifts a shoulder in half a shrug. “Dr. Huxley doesn’t love it. But it’s me. Perks of being obsessed with a dream. I never let myself stay down for long.”

Those words claw at something inside me, but I keep my words light. “I guess that has its merits.”

“For sure.” His mouth cocks in another tired attempt at a smile. “You know, I’m a little offended you haven’t asked about any of my weird fantasies.”

I chuckle, in spite of myself. I get it too, the desire to laugh away the lingering darkness despite the way it weighs him down.

“Dare I ask . . . ” If normalcy is what he needs, I can do that for him. “How weird is weird? Like, whips? Handcuffs? Sex swing?”

He squawks a surprised laugh, making both of us startle. “Sex swing, oh my God. No, that actually wasn’t one of the four bajillion.”

“Okay, good, because I’m not sure I’d be into that.”

“No, me neither. I was thinking more like . . . ” He shifts, so he faces me directly. “Lace. Panties.”

My brows shoot skywards. “On you or me?”

“Which would you prefer?” He bites his lip against a smile—tired, but genuine. “’cause I could go either way.”

“Um. I think I would feel pretty weird in lace panties, actually.” But the idea of him in lace . . . I let my eyes trail from the sharp angles of his cheeks and nose down his throat, over the bob of his Adam’s apple, to his collarbones exposed above the blanket. The covers reach the top of his chest, hiding the rest of him from my observation.

I resist the urge to lower the blanket, to drink in more.

Just because he’s pasted on a bright smile, doesn’t mean he feels it all the way down. How could he, after such darkness held him hostage? But it also doesn’t mean he wouldn’t give me more if I asked for it—regardless of whether or not he was ready to want it.

“I might like you in lace.” I pull my eyes back to his face. “I’m not sure.”

“Could put some on for you,” he says, his mouth softening into a pensive twist. “But I’m kinda worried it might scare you off.”

“Might,” I agree. “My straight ass isn’t ready for that yet.”

“Straight ass,” he mutters. “Hate to break it to you, boy, but your ass is about as straight as mine is.”

“Maybe.” I nestle my head against him, dare to feather the lightest brush of lips against his jawline.

“Oh, no!” He shoots sideways so quickly I don’t even have time to tighten my grip before he’s pushing away. “Nope, no way. You’re not going to kiss me.”

I let go of him like I’ve been burned. Press my back to the wall and lift my hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t—that was rude.”

“Nope.” His hand on my chest keeps me at arm’s distance. He props the other arm under his head. “You are way too hot to kiss me before I’ve brushed my teeth.”

“I . . . what?” I lower my hands slowly.

“Look at you!” he says, and the hand on my chest lifts to wave over me. “You’re like . . . Okay, you’re easily the hottest guy I’ve ever hooked up with, and shit, I’m not gonna let a little morning—afternoon?—sleep breath change your mind about what your dick thinks he wants to do.”

I laugh.

The sound bubbles up from me, loose and free and unrestrainable. “Jesus Christ, Olli.”

“What?” He crosses his arm over his chest. “The hell’s so funny?”

“I’m just . . . glad to see you smiling again,” I admit, sobriety pulling me back down to earth. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Told you. I bounce back quick.” He chews his lower lip, sobering a bit. “Fake it till ya feel it, or whatever they say.”

I chuckle. But even still, I’m not about to pressure him into doing anything he’s not ready for. “How about breakfast instead of kissing?”

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