Page 65 of The Late Hit
Turning my body so that I’m facing him, I bring my legs up, crossing them underneath me. “You—uhh—have dreams like that?” I ask him as the blush comes back.
What is wrong with me? Sex doesn't bother me and talking about sexdefinitelydoesn’t bother me. But talking about it with Q has my cheeks flaming.
“Yeah,I ama guy,” he answers me, bringing his arms back behind his head.
He makes no movement other than that. But I can’t help but notice that, when he raised his arm, his shirt rode up. His black skin is peeking beneath his gray shirt, and I desperately want to trail my fingers down his muscled stomach. He looks content in my bed. Like he’s comfortable and that we sleep together all the time.
Plot twist, we don’t.
Aside from that time in Chicago. If we stay together, Quinton always takes the floor. Always.
At first, I thought it was strange, because what guy wouldn’t take the opportunity to sleep next to me or any girl, but I just thought it was him being respectful. There’s something so hot about a guy that has manners and treats women with respect.
Shaking my head, I pull the sleeve of my hoodie down into my palm before bringing my hand to my face, resting my elbow on my knee.
“No, not like that. I mean, I know you’re a guy, a guy that likes sex. I meant a dream about me, and, oh god, never mind.”
I try to hide my face, but what he says next has me snapping my eyes to his, searching his face for a giveaway that he’s joking.
“Yes, Brynn. I’ve thought about you in my dreams. Like that.”
There’s no evidence that he’s joking. None. The only thing I see is a pained expression painted on his face. It looks like he’s hurt to finally get those words out of his mouth. I just stare at him, unsure of what to say next. Breaking our gaze, I jump out of bed, almost getting tripped up in the blanket that is still wrapped around my foot.
“I have to shower before class,” I practically shout, racing toward my en suite.
Shutting the door behind me, I feel myself start to breathe again. My mind is going back to the admission that he’s dreamed of me. Now factor that in with our kiss in Chicago, and I’m one confused Brynn. Does Quinton have feelings for me? When did that happen?
What do we do now?
There was that kiss outside our front door when we got back from Chicago, but I was just doing what felt right. He was the one who told me to do what felt right in the moment. And in that moment, I needed his lips on mine.
The little touches and small gestures he makes have woken something inside of me. There’s a spark, a connection between us. Maybe there always has been, and I’ve been too blind to acknowledge it. But I don’t want to fight it anymore.
Because the truth is, Quinton Boyd makes me feel alive. I don’t have to find the high when I’m with him. He brings out the high that’s already inside me.
Do I tell him about the shift I’ve been feeling? That my body hums in his presence. That I can sense him in a room before I see him.
Walking over to my sink, I pull out my toothbrush, dabbing a small amount of toothpaste on the bristles. Bringing the toothbrush to my mouth, I start brushing my teeth while my mind starts to play back over the years.
Quinton has always been protective of me, always coming to my defense when a guy gets too handsy or when slut-shaming begins for my extracurricular activities. We spend a lot of time together, but that's just what friends do, right? It’s normal to spend this much time together…right?
These thoughts are making my brain hurt. It doesn't help that I have an emotional hangover from yesterday’s grieving session. Factor in all the junk food, alcohol, and smoking and I’m spent. Arealhot freaking mess.
Spitting the toothpaste out of my mouth, I rinse the brush and swish water in my mouth, before splashing cold water on my face. Stripping my clothes, I climb into the shower, letting the cold water run over me until it gets warm.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m stepping out of my bathroom with my hair in a towel and a robe covering my body. Surprise has me jumping. Quinton is still here. He’s sitting on my bed, dressed in last night’s clothes, scrolling through his phone. Glancing around my room, I see that all of the trash from the day before has been cleaned up, and my bed has been made.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, referring to cleaning my room.
His shoulders flex with tension. And I hate that. I hate that he was vulnerable with me and instead of talking to him about it, I fled. I’m good at that. Running when life gets a little challenging.
Glancing over his shoulder, he takes in my body. Running his eyes from my bare legs up my silk robe-covered body, snagging a little longer on my cleavage that is exposed from the opening of the robe, before making his way up to my eyes. Dark stormy eyes meet my “deer-in-the-headlights” expression. Vulnerability and sadness, and maybe a little arousal, line his features. He runs his hand over the back of his head, gripping his neck. Exhaling, I feel myself deflate.
“Q,” I sigh, stepping closer to him. “I’m sorry I walked away.”
My legs are next to his, and I’m standing over him as he sits. Seeing him sitting there, looking up at me with desire in his eyes does something to me. Warmth starts to spread through my body, settling in my lower stomach, nipples pebbling against the silk. He must see something on my face, because lust fills his eyes.
Quinton breaks eye contact first. Clearing his throat, he stands up. Our bodies are close, much closer than normal, especially since I’m wearing nothing except for a thin silk robe.
