Page 67 of A Favor Owed

“And then what? You’ll kick me out?” I breathe in his boy-next-door smell. “I’m still getting used to the idea of being your girlfriend. I can’t put myself out there like that.”

“You can kickmeout. And I’ll transfer to Columbia. You want a contract?” I nudge him. “I’m serious,” he says. “I’ll move out.”

“I can’t imagine you having a secret that would make me want to throw you out and send you packing back to New York,” I say.

“Well, imagination isn’t really your strong point, is it? You’re more of an analytical, data-driven kind of girl, right?”

I laugh softly in spite of myself.

“So here are some facts,” he says, shifting us so that he’s lying on the sofa with me on top of him. “You can’t move back to your old place for a while, if ever. It’ll be tough to find someone willing to rent you a place with so many code violations that it’s affordable. I’m gonna kick ass at this whole boyfriend thing—”

“That’s speculation, not fact.”

“Work with me here, princess,” he says, then continues. “You’re too busy with work and school and volunteering to look for that needle in a haystack shithole. And we were pretty good roommates the last three days. So everything points to you staying here.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Let me help you deliberate.” He takes my face between his hands and kisses me. My body comes out of its sleepy haze, sparking to life and crackling like fireworks. “Sofa’s not going to work,” he rasps between kisses. He stands up with my legs wrapped around his waist and heads to the bedroom. We fall onto the bed, and I’m on top of him again, pulling his T-shirt up his body and drinking in the sight of him. He makes quick work of my flowered, button-down, sleeveless top, practically ripping the buttons off in his haste. He pauses just to take in the sight of my lacy pink bra, but then that’s yanked off, too, along with the rest of my clothes.

He flips us over, discards the rest of his clothes, and presses his body against mine. His fingers travel down my body, along my legs, back up to my thighs. His teeth graze my tattoo.

“What did you do with those condoms?” I breathe, my heart rate in a full sprint, my entire body trembling with need and apprehension.

“There are some in the nightstand,” he says, but he doesn’t move to get them.

“What are you waiting for?”

“You, princess.”

“I’m ready.”

“Not for our first time, you’re not.”

I stiffen. Holy shit. Does he know? “Wh-what do you mean?” I stammer out.

“I mean it’s been a really rough few days for you. I don’t want you to do it because you’re not in a good head space, you know? I don’t want you regretting anything.”

“All I’m hearing is ‘I don’t want you.’”

He rolls us over and wraps his hands around my wrists. There’s no humor in his eyes. They’re wild. “I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in my life. I dream about you, Angie. I dream about fucking you. All the time. I just need to think about how your hair smells and I get hard. It’s happened in the middle of Property class, for Christ’s sake. But I want to show you I can do this. I can wait for you. I can wait for a day that we didn’t see your burned-out house three days after escaping from a burning town. I want you, but I want you happy and not stressed out and not just looking for a way to get out of your head. Okay?”

I stare at him for a few seconds, kind of stunned. I thought sex would just be sex for him. It had never entered the realm of possibility that he thought about it on this level. An emotional level. Wow.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay,” he says and touches his forehead to mine. Then he kisses me, and his smiling eyes are back. “Now go the fuck down on me, please. I’m dying over here.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Angela

I have to hand it to him. Brady is a damn good boyfriend. Admittedly, I don’t have much experience in this department, but like every girl, I have my dreams. And he ticks off all myCosmo- andSeventeen-influenced requirements for relationship success. Sweet but not mushy, funny but capable of being serious when appropriate (usually), edgy but not a jerk, attentive but not overbearing, and ridiculously attuned to me and always patient when it comes to sex. Which still isn’t sex but is eminently satisfying all the same.

I go back to work and school and tentatively settle into Brady’s apartment. It’s a work in progress for me.

“What’s with you?” Brady walks into his bedroom to see me standing on the threshold of the en suite bathroom two days after I moved in, clutching a Target bag.

I turn abruptly. “What am I supposed to do with my…stuff?” I ask in a panicked voice, nearly paralyzed with embarrassment.

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