Page 67 of Built to Fall
Not with her. Not with anyone. Notreally.
Soeven ifit makes me a scumbag for thinking about Lina while Savannah’s hands are all over me, it doesn’t make me a liar. I’ve never promised Savannah more than this. She’s never asked. We both know exactly what we are to each other:comfort without consequence.
That’s why it works.
Savannah presses her forehead to mine, her voice a whisper. “Still with me?”
“Of course,” I reply, even though I’m not.
She knows the truth. I know she does. Regardless, her kiss deepens, and I let myself fall into it.
Not because I want Savannah.
But because I know I should stop wanting Lina.
I push the thoughts down—every single one—bury them under the way Savannah presses her body to mine, the sound of her breath hitching when I grip her hips, and the rush of something that feels close enough to intimacy if I keep my eyes shut tight.
She sinks into me, and I kiss her like she’s a distraction I’m desperate to drown in.
Because she is.
She takes, and I let her—because it’s easier to give in than to sit with the ache that comes with wanting something I shouldn’t.
My hands slip beneath the fabric of her lace bra, and she moans against my mouth like she’s already forgotten everything we just said.
I try to do the same—forget Lina’s voice and how different it feels to be seen by her instead of touched by Savannah.
But no matter how far I fall into this, no matter how fast I move, Lina still lingers.
In every breath I take between Savannah’s kisses.
In the way I close my eyes and pretend I’m not imagining someone else.
And in the guilt that sits like a bruise that I keep pressing harder on, just to see if it still hurts.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LINA
Grant has been a pain in my ass ever since I talked to him in the Union on Monday.
Not only because he’s still extremely worried, but also because he seems to believe he has the solution to all of my problems.
As if his bed is some type of magical force—the only thing that can effectively get me to sleep.
I’ve told him a hundred times that the only reason I slept in his bed the night of Halloween was because of how drunk I was, and if he really wanted to help me sleep, the only way he could do that is if I were to come over and get shitfaced every night.
Just what I need. An alcohol addiction.
He doesn’t seem convinced, though. He is insistent on the fact that I should try out his bed again. And because of that fact, my roommates have all formed a collective alliance with the one and only Grant Vandenberg—who has been showing up in our apartment sometime after dinner for the past three days.
“Are you going to sleep on the couch tonight?” I ask sarcastically when I open the front door.
Broad shoulders fill the doorway as his brown eyes bore into me. He’s wearing sweats, matching the navy quarter-zip he hason, and his hair is tousled, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times.
He’s also doing that thing guys do where they lean against the doorway and cross their arms. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be intimidating, but either way, it’s yet another thing I’m glad to have solidified in my eidetic memory.
Grant gives me a look. One I shouldn’t find as attractive as I do. “I will if that means you’re not going to go running in the middle of the night.”
