Jamie:
Goodnight
I put my phone on the nightstand.
Stare at the ceiling.
Fine.
Chapter 38
Rhys
He shows up at my place on a random Thursday with no warning. Like a crazy person. Because who the fuck just shows up without an invitation? Yes, I invited him. Once. And then we never talked about it again and I assumed he forgot or said yes to be polite and I wasn't going to push it because I have some dignity. Sometimes.
I run a hand through my hair. This is insane. We went from hating each other to kind of friendly then back to hating each other to — whatever the hell this is. Trying to be actual friends? Pretending we can exist in the same space like nothing happened?
Like you can just unsuck someone's dick.
Yeah. No. That's not how that works. You don't forget the moans. You don't forget the way he tenses right before he loses it, or the specific broken sound he makes when he finally does, or the way he looks at you after like he hates you for seeing him so vulnerable.
You don't forget the taste.
Okay. This is exactly why this is a terrible idea and I am opening the door anyway. Also I'm unforgettable so how dare he act like this is fine. But if playing nice is what it takes to get somewhere with Jamie Nash — really somewhere, somewhere that matters — then fine. I can do that. I can be his friend.
For like an hour.
And then for dessert I'll jam my dick in his mouth.
I open the door.
He's standing there in a grey hoodie and dark jeans, hair slightly messed up like he drove fast with the windows down to get here, holding a grocery bag like that explains anything.
I look at him like he’s insane.
He gives me that look right back.
"You said you'd teach me to cook."
"I said I'd make you food." I lean against the doorframe. "Very different offer, Nash."
"Whatever," he says, already stepping forward. "Can I come in or not?"
I step aside. He brushes past me — shoulder grazing mine, close enough that I catch the smell of him, soap and underneath it, just Jamie, like a citrusy musk — and it moves through me like a current. All the way down. Every single time. One second of contact and my entire body decides to have a full reaction to it. Like I'm allergic to him, if allergies made you horny instead of red and rashy.
Blake takes one look at Jamie Nash standing in our kitchen and evaporates. Book, laptop, water bottle — gone in under ten seconds, no introduction, just the space where he was now empty. I'll try to kiss him later as a thank you.
We end up making pasta.
Or rather, I make pasta. Jamie just stands four inches behind me with his arms crossed, watching every single thing I do with that laser focus of his that was designed specifically to make me insane. I can feel his eyes moving over me. Over my hands. Over the line of my shoulders when I reach for something.
He has incredible hands. I've had them on me. I know exactly how they feel — firm and rough and demanding in a way thatmakes my brain go offline — and standing here pretending I don't know that while he watches me cook is one of the more psychotic things I've agreed to.
"Why that amount of salt?" he asks, dragging my brain out of the gutter.
"Because, sweetheart, that's how much it needs."
"That's not an answer."
