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The only thing in my head is the glorious mental image of him peeling off my panties and pressing a vibe to my clit.
Fuck.
We're going to live together. We're going to be roommates. Or even... it's more like he's my legal guardian.
He doesn't see me that way.
We're friends.
We're only ever going to be friends.
I need to act like this is normal. Like we're two adults talking about sex toys like adults do. "I thought guys were bothered by—" I can say the word. "Vibrators."
"In your vast experience?"
"Yeah." Okay, so I've never exactly had a guy over here. I've never had a guy's hands below my waist. Or mine below his. But I listen in class, at work, at the shop. I've heard guys talk about sex toys like they were only for desperate women.
"It's a tool. That's it."
"And that doesn't threaten you?"
"No."
"You're that... confident?"
He gives me a long once over. His eyes settle on mine. "We're not having his conversation."
"You brought it up."
"Even so."
There's something in his eyes.
An awkwardness I don't recognize.
Because he sees me as a sister?
Or because he's desperate to use a vibrator on me?
* * *
It takes the entire morning to unpack my stuff. The room—my room—has a desk but it's lacking most of the other furniture I need.
We get lunch at the taco place down the street, make plans to get furniture tomorrow, argue about who is going to stay in the master bedroom until we get my bed. I insist he stays in his room. He insists the couch.
Eventually, I break and agree. And it has nothing to do with how much I want to be in his bed, wrapped up in sheets that smell of him.
It's not like that's the only reason why I relent.
Not at all.
* * *
God, this really is amazing.
I fall back onto Brendon's four poster bed.
I sink into the smooth sheets.
