Page 207 of The Fake Date Agreement

He stops kissing me long enough to pull his shirt over his head. As he tosses it to the floor, he winces.

I sit up, alarmed. “Stop.”

He frowns. “Tobie?”

“You’re hurt.” I rest my palms flat on his chest and push him onto the pillows. “You should be resting. Don’t move.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m resting?”

I grip my hoodie, pulling it and the shirt I have on underneath off, throwing both to the floor. “I’m sure I can think of a way to pass the time.”

His face goes blank.

His phone vibrates. I grin when he pats at the table in a fruitless search for it because he won’t look away from my bare breasts.

“Do you want me to get that?” I crawl over him, grab the phone, and hand it to him.

His eyes are glued to me.

When he reaches for me, I lean back. “I will drop this phone, and I won’t even care if I crack your screen,” I warn him, which makes him smile. His attentionisamazing for my self-confidence, though. I offer him the phone. “Here. It could be important.”

Dragging his hungry gaze from my breasts, he takes the phone, scanning the message on it. The corners of his eyes pinch. “Reid has now stopped prowling for Marc. He’s with Jay at the rink.”

“Are they coming here?”

He shakes his head. “Reid is filling Jay in on what happened.”

I lean in and kiss him, then slide down the bed, grasping the waistband of his shorts.

“Tobie?” His voice is husky.

“Yeah?” I peer up at him innocently, pretending not to notice the bulge inches from my fingers.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Shit. I’m not going to survive this, am I?”

“Oh, I forgot.” I scramble off the bed, toe off my sneakers, and shimmy out of my pants.

He stares at me, standing naked beside him. “Jesus. And you’re expecting me not tomove?”

“While I touch you? Yes.”

He covers his face with one hand and releases a resigned sigh. “Do your worst, Myers. I’ll do what I can to survive this.”

Laughing, I climb back onto the bed. I slide his shorts off him, and the need to smile evaporates as I take in all the multicolored bruises, not just on his chest but on his right knee. Shit. It’s black and blue with bruises. No wonder he was yelling at Reid to go away when he was bringing him soup. Putting pressure on it has to be agony.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tobie.”

Caleb’s soft words drag my gaze from his bruised body.

“But your knee.”

“Is still sore,” he admits. “But it is hurting less and less. I’ll be okay.”

“And the game? It’s so important. If Marc has hurt you badly enough that you can’t play, I will literally kill him.” I consider it. “I still might.”

“Not you, too, with the murderous rampage through campus,” he says with a grin.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

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