Page 33 of Beyond The Break

It should be illegal to be as attractive as he is because it sure feels illegal to be attracted to him, especially since we live in the same home and share a bedroom wall. His eyes narrow, causingme to fidget, as he scans my face followed by a jump of his brows when he realizes I’m not lying.

“You don’t touch yourself?” he asks, bewildered.

“No,” I say firmly, my face scorching hot.

“Hmm,” he pushes himself off the door and comes closer, leaning down so that we’re eye level, “I don’t believe you, sunshine.”

“Don’t call me that.” My lips pull back.

He ignores me and carries on. “You mean to tell me you never touch yourself? Not even a little bit, sunshine?”

I hesitate and consider lying to him. It’s embarrassing that at my age I’ve still never had sex, let alone touched myself, and I wonder if that will change how he looks at me. But I realize it’s not like he even likes me, so it doesn’t matter what he thinks about it.

“No, not even a little bit.”

He frowns before standing straight and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Why not?”

I shrug. “I’ve just never done it.”

His eyes narrow. “But others have?”

The question serves as a reminder of my horrible taste in men. Every guy I’ve ever dated, albeit casually, has always been the type to take but not give back. Once I realized this, I stopped dating altogether, giving up hope on finding a decent partner.

“Nope.” His eyes widen in surprise.

Here comes the infamous question.

“Wait, are you a virgin?” he asks, his golden skin paling.

I nod slowly, my fingers curling into themselves as I dig my nails into my palms to distract myself from the embarrassment building inside of me.

The last guy to ask me that question ended up telling all his friends and it somehow turned into the punchline of every jokehe ever told. It was humiliating and I still can’t believe I stayed with him for as long as I did.

“You can’t be serious, you’re like twenty-three.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Oh, that makes more sense then,” he says sarcastically, “were you homeschooled or something?”

“No, Griffin, I was not homeschooled. Now, if we’re done with this conversation, I would really love to return to the shower you rudely interrupted me from.”

He’s awfully curious about me and my past for someone that likes to pretend to hate me. In normal circumstances, I would entertain this conversation and leave him feeling stupid by the end of it. But, seeing as he interrupted my shower, I’m less inclined to answer his questions.

“You should at least know what you like before you let anyone else try and figure it out,” he grumbles as he tucks his hands into his pockets, leaning against the door again.

“I do know what I like,” I argue.

Caramel Crunch ice cream.

Photography.

Dogs.

“Do you?” His voice is low as he stares into my eyes, and the sound causes goosebumps to scatter across my whole body. “You know how to make yourself come?”

I watch as his eyes slide over my body once again, noting the goosebumps forming along my arms before pausing on the scar on my chest peeking out from under my towel. I quickly pull the towel up, hiding it from his gaze, as he raises his eyes back to mine.

The scar is a lifelong reminder of the accident that killed my parents. A mark left by a metal pole that impaled me during the accident. If it had gone two inches deeper, I would’ve been six feet under right next to my parents.

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