Page 12 of Bitter When He Begs

And then it hits me.

I didn’t think about the pills. Not once.

Not since I saw him at the party. Not since I dragged him into my truck. Not since I got my hands on him, tasted the way he trembled under my mouth, and felt the way he fought and fucking lost.

I let out a slow, disbelieving laugh, shaking my head as I shift the truck into drive and head toward the Sin Bin.

Guess I found my new favorite fucking drug.

Sage

Mondaymorning,Iwakeup and decide that Friday never fucking happened.

Luca Devereaux didn’t drag me into his truck, didn’t corner me with that smug fucking smirk, didn’t flirt with me in a way that had my face burning and my stomach twisting. He didn’t kiss me, didn’t touch me, didn’t own me with nothing but his voice and the way he looked at me like he already knew how I’d fall apart for him.

He also didn’t threaten Lee, or act like I was some possession he could toss around when it suited him, and I definitely,definitelydidn’t have a permanent fucking hard-on thinking about it.

Nope. Never happened.

I tell myself that again as I shower, as I shove on my clothes, as I head to class and chomp through peppermint candies, but my body isn’t getting the memo because the second I stop moving, I feel it.

The ghost of his hands, the way he tasted, the way he fucking smirked like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. I still feel him under my skin, lingering there—waiting.

So I do what any normal, well-adjusted person would do after a deeply humiliating and confusing experience: I pretend it didn’t exist.

I go about my Monday like I wasn’t pressed up against the passenger seat of his truck, like he wasn’t dragging his tongue across my lips like he had all the fucking time in the world, like I wasn’t sitting there letting him do it.

I go to class, hang out with the guys at the frat, shoot the shit with Nate without so much as flinching. It’s fine. I’m fine.

And then Tuesday rolls around, and Roman Bishop texts me. We’re in the same circles because of our majors, but that’s about where it ends with us.

Roman: Need help with something. You free?

I blink at my phone for half a second before sighing. Roman’s two years my senior and not the type to ask for help unless he really needs it, and since I actually like the guy, I don’t mind.

Me: Yeah, what’s up?

Roman: Film project. Gotta set up some gear. You know your shit, right?

He’s not wrong. My dad’s a producer, and I’ve been hanging around movie sets for as long as I can remember. I know film gear better than most people know their own fucking laptops. It’s probably why Roman asked me instead of anyone else—because I actually know what I’m doing, and he won’t have to waste time explaining the basics.

Me: Yeah, I got you.

Roman: Cool. I’ll send you a location pin to my place.

After classes, I have Nate drop me off at Roman’s place since my car went in for a service. People on campus call it The Sin Bin—a massive off-campus place where some of Blackthorne’s top-tier athletes live. I’ve been here a handful of times for parties, but this is the first time I’m showing up sober and with a purpose.

Roman meets me at the door like he’s been standing there for a while, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over that broad chest. No nervous energy, no fake small talk. Just that lazy, effortless confidence athletes seem to wear like a second skin.

He’s the kind of hot that doesn’t try, and has that untouchable, all-American thing going for him—brown hair that’s always a little messy like he just skated off the ice, hazel eyes too deep to be friendly, and a jawline sharp enough to make a guy rethink his entire sexuality if he wasn’t already self-aware.

He’s wearing a hoodie that’s seen better days and gray sweatpants that I’m not going to look at too long because I value what little self-control I’ve got. That, and his boyfriend would probably kill me.

“Gear’s in the back. Need help setting up lighting and making sure everything’s dialed in. The audio setup isn’t working the way it’s supposed to, either.”

I nod and follow him through the house, glancing around at the absolute chaos that comes with ten athletes living under the same roof. There’s a half-empty protein shake abandoned on a coffee table, a hockey stick leaning against the wall, and a single running shoe on the stairs for no fucking reason.

Roman pushes open a door, revealing what looks like a makeshift filming space—tripods, cameras, lighting rigs, everything half-assembled.

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