Page 212 of Worthy

Sucking in a cheek, I rest my thumb on the page and tilt my head, peeking over at him through my silver-blond hair. “Izzy liked it too.”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes bore into mine. “Yeah…” His brow furrows, and something passes through his pale eyes, there and gone before I can make sense of it. He drops his gaze, clears his throat and reclines back.

Cracking my neck, I join him, scooting down so I can curl into a ball again and rest my sketchbook against my thighs without straining my neck.

Since I’m expecting it this time, I don’t outwardly react when our shoulders knock, bare arms pressed against each other. He’s warm and sleep-soft; nowhere near as furnace-level hot as he was when I got plastered up against his hard, toned body this afternoon.

He yawns into his fist and wiggles around, trying to get more comfortable.

I give a little shake of my head, not taking my eyes off the blank paper. “C’mere.” Not waiting for a response, I reach down with the hand not holding the pencil and find his arm, dragging it over my midsection, several inches above where I rest my sketchbook.

And just like that, any hesitation he had a second ago slips away.

It’s been months since we cuddled like this—not since before I confessed my feelings for him. Not since before…that night,the night we don’t talk about, the night that changed fucking everything.

The night he keeps apologizing for, when I’d give anything to just forget.

And while everything still hangs heavily over us, it’s got nothing on our muscle memory as we finally cave into what we’ve both been craving all these months.

Mason rolls onto his side, facing me, scooting over so he’s pressed up right alongside me. He tucks his head in the spot between my shoulder and neck, his breaths hot little pants against the skin peeking out above my collar.

The arm slung over my middle is a familiar, grounding comfort, and I find myself breathing a little easier.

That is until his hand slides under my shirt, cupping my bare waist.

I suck in a sharp breath and my hand jerks, drawing a jagged slash across the page.

Mason stiffens, and mutters, “Sorry.” He goes to retreat, but I stop him, pressing my hand over his, feeling the grooves of his knuckles through my thin shirt.

“It’s fine.”

It’s a long beat before he exhales, the tension melting from his bones. He burrows his face deeper into the crook of my neck, and I fight a shudder when I feel the distinctive metal of his lip piercing brushing my collarbone. The rasp of his late-night stubble.

“Thank you.”

Throat tight, it takes everything in me to get the words out. “This is the last time.”

Mason stills. While I’ve told myself this very same thing every time we’ve done this, this is the first time I’ve said it out loud to him.

A long beat passes and I don’t think he’ll respond. My fingers tremble. “Mas—”

“I know.”

The words are spoken softly, but resigned. Like maybe he too is promising himself the same thing I’ve been promising myself all these years.

Has he been lying to himself all this time too?I can’t help but wonder, but I immediately shove that thought away.

No, no, definitely not. It probably never even occurred to him how fucked up this is. Why would he, when up until last September, things were completely platonic between us? Friends comfort friends…

Right?

“Okay,” is all I say.

“Okay,” is all he says back.

Seconds give way to minutes, and I lose myself to drawing once more. Music continues to play in our ears, and I find myself silently mouthing the words.

Just when I think he might’ve fallen asleep, I sense him watching me, and my pencil slows to a stop on the page. Pressing my lips together, I flick my eyes down, arching a brow when I find Mason peering up at me through sleepy pale blue eyes.

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