Page 83 of Bitter When He Begs

Hewantedto stay.

But he didn’t.

Somehow, that makes it better—knowing he’s not with me just because it’s easy. Knowing that when he does come back, it’ll be because he wants to, not because he lost control.

And when I finally get to touch him again, it won’t be about proving a point. It’ll be about taking what’s already mine.

Sage

ThesecondIstepfoot into the frat house, I don’t stop to talk to anyone. I don’t answer when one of the guys in the living room calls out my name with a lazy, drawn-out greeting.

I don’t stop to take off my shoes or say goodnight or do any of the normal things I usually do after coming back from somewhere. I just make a straight line to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me.

The mirror fogs quickly once the water starts to run, but I don’t really look at myself. I strip everything off in a blur, pulling my shirt over my head, shoving down my jeans, toeing out of my socks, stepping out of everything until I’m bare, flushed, and tense all over.

My skin still smells like him. That expensive, masculine cologne that clings to my clothes and curls under my collarbone. It’s soft, woodsy, and a little spicy. It’s comfort and danger and heat, all wrapped up in one goddamn scent.

And I’m about to wash it off.

I step under the water anyway, because if I don’t, I’ll keep thinking about what it means to still smell like Luca Devereaux. I’ll keep replaying the way he looked at me all afternoon like I was something he was trying to figure out and memorize at the same time.

The water scalds my skin, hotter than necessary, but I don’t turn the knob. I tilt my head back, letting it sting, and I stand there until the steam starts to make me dizzy.

The cologne fades first.

Then the rest of him.

I should be relieved that I have this moment to separate myself from Luca, to clear my head, to remind myself that this thing between us isn’t supposed to consume every thought in my head.

But all I can think about is him.

The way he looked at me in the pool.

The way his fingers traced my tattoo like he wanted to memorize it.

The way he kissed me.

I grip the tiled wall, my head dropping forward, water streaming down my back as my brain replays every moment over and over.

By the time I turn the shower off and wrap a towel around my waist, it’s like he was never even here. But my body still remembers. My lips still feel bruised. My throat still aches faintly from moaning too loud.

My thighs feel tight from how hard he held them. My wrists still itch from where he pinned them down with one hand like it was nothing. My lungs can’t quite catch up.

And I’m fucking sore from the way he completely wrecked me. I’ll need a goddamn pillow to sit on for the next week, at least.

I think about the way his voice softened when he asked if I was okay. The way his hands never stopped moving, like he needed to feel me, to keep himself grounded. The way he pressed hisforehead against mine and told me he didn’t want this to be a one-time thing.

I dry off, shove on a pair of sweatpants, and drag a hoodie over my head without bothering to do anything else. The second I collapse into my bed, I curl up, hoodie tight, knees bent like they might keep the ache out.

My head’s on my pillow, but my brain’s somewhere else entirely. And it won’t stop playing the day back at me, over and over, like it’s stuck on some cruel loop I can’t escape.

Luca kissed me in front of his friends. He pulled me onto his lap on the deck, wrapped his arms around me without caring who saw, and tucked his face into the crook of my neck like he was trying to breathe me in.

He kissed my shoulder. He kissed the shell of my ear. He whispered“mine”under his breath in a way no one else could hear, but I did. And I felt it everywhere.

He’s my boyfriend now.

What the actual fuck.

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