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I slam my eyes shut and try to conjure up an image of some generic previous one-night stand. But all I can smell is Beat, so of course her face pops into my head. Along with it comes the memory of yesterday’s car ride and the feel of her tongue running along the edge of my jaw, her satiny chestnut hair between my fingers, and the salty-sweet taste of her skin when I bit her ear. Like a fucking savage. My imagination takes over. Instead of her trying to rip out my nipple hair while I’m threatening to bite off her earlobe like an unhinged MMA fighter, she’s on her knees in front of me. I’m gripping her hair as her tongue drags across that plush, pouty bottom lip.
My lids fly open before I can take that disturbing fantasy any further, but it’s too late. My erection kicks in my fist, and I explode all over the tile wall. I didn’t even get my cock into her imaginary fucking mouth.
I wash away the aggravation with my own goddamn body wash.
When I leave the bathroom, Beat is in the kitchen. She’s not the gangly fourteen-year-old I remember. She’s definitely all woman now.
“Disappointed because I locked the door this time?”
“What’d that take you? All of five minutes?” she fires back. “If anyone’s disappointed, it’s your previous one-night stands. But I guess that explains why you never have a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriends are a pain in the ass.” Caring about someone only leads to disappointment. I learned that the hard way and never fucking forgot.
“Especially when you can’t keep them satisfied.”
I flip her the bird and disappear into my bedroom, closing the door harder than I mean to and jolting at the noise like an idiot. I can’t stand fighting, and yet that’s all Beat and I seem to do. I jab my legs into a pair of boxer briefs but don’t bother dressing the rest of the way. Flip doesn’t like to run the air conditioning the same way I do, which means if I put a shirt on post shower, I’ll start sweating, and then I’ll have to change again before we leave for this morning’s team meeting. Which I’m stressed about.
I throw open my bedroom door. Beat is still standing at the island, chopping fruit. She’s not wearing a bra. I know this because there’s no strap on her bare shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, showing off the graceful slope of her neck and curve of her ear. Which I bit yesterday. My gaze drops lower, to where her nipple peaks against the pale pink fabric. I can’t decide if it’s an optical illusion, but I swear I can see its outline through her shirt.
I stomp across the room, angry that she’s in my space, using my kitchen, and yank open the fridge. I blink a few times as I process the contents. Someone went grocery shopping. No, not someone. Beat. When Flip shops, he buys ramen, Kraft Dinner, and whatever sugary cereal is on sale. The crisper is full of fresh fruits and vegetables. There are two cartons of orange juice—the generic kind from concentrate, not the organic, fresh-pressed stuff I usually get, but still. I grab the extra pulpy one and pour myself an enormous glass. I down it and pour a second.
Beat is still chopping fruit. There’s a huge fruit tray already prepared, with one empty spot left. I’m always in charge of breakfast. And most meals in general. It’s been years since someone has done this for me.
I don’t want to get fucking nostalgic. Or think about how much I hated going home where I had two younger brothers to help raise because my mom sucked as a human being. Flip and Beat had everything I didn’t.
“I satisfy my partners every single fucking time,” I blurt.
Beat continues slicing pineapple into chunks as if I don’t exist.
I move into her personal space until I’m close enough to smell her shampoo, which I used to beat off. The irony is not lost on me. “Every. Time.”
She stops cutting and spins around, all curves and full lips and huge brown eyes. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. It was on my skin yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about that, and it makes my blood boil.
“How can you be sure?” She fingers the end of her ponytail, which hangs over her shoulder and rests on the swell of her breast. “What if they fake it for you?”
“They don’t.”
“So cocky and sure of yourself, aren’t you, Tris?” Her hand goes to her chest, and she exhales a tremulous breath. “Oh.” Her pink-painted fingernails skate up the side of her neck, then drift along the collar of her shirt. “Oh, God,” she whimpers.
The sound goes straight to my asshole cock. “The fuck?”
