Page 77 of The Revenge Game
Justin’s forehead is creased as his eyes capture mine.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that without asking.”
Asking? Did that mean Justin didn’t just lose his balance, his lips colliding with mine accidentally?
Was there actual intent in that kiss?
Justin intentionally kissed me??
He’s interested in guys???
He’s interested in me????
There’s a lot for me to process right now, but my body’s not in the mood to wait for my mind to catch up.
Instead, it acts of its own accord because, suddenly, I’ve closed the distance between us to press my mouth back against his.
His mouth is warm under mine and his lips are impossibly soft, his stubble scraping deliciously as he deepens the kiss.
And now I’m kissing Justin Morris. For real.
Justin’s tongue slides against mine. He tastes faintly of the coffee from his dessert, but mostly, he tastes exactly how Justin should taste—sweet, real, and devastating.
Is this actually happening? Or have I slid into some alternative reality? A reality where Justin’s hand has come up to palm the side of my face, his touch gentle.
“Drew.” He groans my name, bringing me back to reality with a thud. Because he thinks I’m Drew. He’s kissing Drew, not Andrew.
I wrench myself away from him.
Oh my god.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. My body stages a full protest like every cell is filing individual complaints with management about this terrible decision.
Because honestly? Justin Morris looking at me with swollen lips, his hair disheveled, pupils dilated…
I stagger to my feet.
“I’ve got to go.”
The words come out strangled, barely recognizable as my own voice.
Justin stares at me with those beautiful ocean-colored eyes, but I’m already moving, fumbling for his doorknob, my hands shaking so badly it takes three attempts to open it.
I practically fall through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind me before staggering down the hallway to my apartment on shaky legs, my heart threatening to pound out of my chest.
Inside my apartment, my generic IT-guy decor mocks me. The IKEA furniture, the programming manuals, theStar Warsposter—everything designed to maintain my cover story where I’m Drew Smith, help desk technician.
A guy that Justin Morris just kissed.
Oh my fucking god.
Justin likes guys?
The thought keeps hitting me in waves, each one threatening to drown me. The golden-boy quarterback, the guy who tormented me for being gay, just kissed me like his life depended on it.
I press my fingers to my lips, which are still tingling from his kiss. The memory of his lips, the way he touched my face, the way he groaned my name—no, not my name, Drew’s name—sends another wave of dizziness through me.
How long has he known he’s attracted to men? Did he know that about himself in high school? The question explodes in my mind, forcing me to reexamine every memory through this new lens.
