Page 125 of Shut Up and Score
THIRTY-TWO
MICAH
I’m so screwed.
Colton is sprawled across my bed, hair mussed, lips still kiss-swollen, and my chest feels as if someone’s reached in and fisted my heart and pulled it out. Last night was supposed to be sex—hot, stupid, revenge-flavored sex. Then he kissed me slowly this morning as though I was the only guy on earth. And I let him. I fucking let him.
My walls are Swiss cheese now, and the problem with Swiss cheese? One more hole and the whole thing collapses.
I’m not sure when the line blurred.
It wasn’t supposed to. I told myself last night was just…lust. Need. Maybe closure, if that’s a thing we could ever have.
But the second his mouth touched my chest this morning, soft and reverent, it all cracked open.
Colton didn’t just fuck me. Hemade love to me.
Slow, careful, like every thrust was a confession he couldn’t say out loud. Like he meant every touch to be permanent, something I’d feel long after he pulled out and left.And I did—I felt it. I still feel it now, sinking into my bones, crawling under my skin, a brand I can’t scrub away.
I’m sofuckingscrewed.
Because I want to keep him. I want to roll over and drag him on top of me again. I want to hear that soft, gasped little sound he made when he came, as though I’d been the only thing in the world that mattered.
Wanting him means giving him the power to ruin me, and I swore I’d never let him do that again.
His fingers are in my hair, warm and slow, and it’s killing me. I can feel him breathing against my neck, still holding me, and pretending we’re something real. My chest feels too tight, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with him.
I can’t stay here.
My hand slips from his hair to the sheets. I suck in a breath that feels like it scrapes my ribs raw.
“We should…we should get up,” I manage, rough and low.
“Yeah,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move.
When I finally force myself to meet his eyes, it’s a gut punch. He looks at me as if I’m his whole world. Like he already decided what we are.
I can’t let that happen. Not when he’s still half in the closet. Not when he could crush me without meaning to.
“Micah…” he says, and it’s not a question so much as a plea.
“Don’t.” My voice cuts through the room, harsher than I mean it. I swing my legs off the bed, cleaning up before reaching for my boxers like the motion itself can save me. My back is to him, rigid, every muscle straining not to turn around and give in.
“You can’t just—” he starts, and god, I want to.
“I can.” I force the words out flat, even though they slice me open on the way. “We have practice. And we’re late.”
I hear the sheets rustle as he sits up. The loss of his warmth makes me shiver. I pull on my sweats, then my hoodie, my armor, trying to trap the pieces of myself that want to spill out all over him.
When I risk a glance back, he’s watching me.
Messy hair. Flushed lips. Eyes too soft.
And for half a second, Ibreak. I feel every ounce of last night and this morning in my chest—him under me, around me, in me, his whispered yes, the way he made love to me as if he never wanted to stop.
Then I blink, and the wall slams back into place. “We should go,” I mutter, because if I stay another minute, I’ll tell him the truth. That he’s mine. That I’m his. That I don’t know how to stop.
I grab my bag and step into the hall before I can do something stupid, like crawl back into that bed and never leave.
