Page 79 of Beg Me

He pinches the back of my shirt, tugging it away from my body, then letting it go. All the while, his eyes stay glued to mine.

“I’m not following you,” I say.

“What in the fuck are you doing with another man’s name on your back?”

“What?” I peer over my shoulder, confused. Did someone put a sticky note on my back when I wasn’t looking? But this shirt was clean and I just put it on and came straight there … “What are you talking about?”

He rolls his eyes and grabs his paddle from a backpack, then sets off for the other side of the court. “The back of your shirt says Landry.”

“Oh,” I say, sighing in relief. “I thought something was actually wrong, asshole.”

“It is actually wrong. You’re wearing some other guy’s shirt.”

I roll my eyes right back at him. He better be kidding because I’ll fight him today.

“It’s not some other guy’s shirt,” I say, taking my spot behind the baseline. “It’s a shirt Mira bought me for Christmas a few years ago that just happens to have Lincoln Landry’s name on it.”

“Yeah. I can read.”

“Good,” I say, serving the ball.

His return lands at my feet. “I probably have a half a dozen shirts with my name on the back.”

I punch the ball down the line as I realize what’s happening. He might be playing around, because there’s no way he can take this seriously, but there is an element of truth to it.

Jory’s jealous.

My core begins to burn as I internalize this fact. Jealousy looks so hot on him.

I lunge to my left side just in time to tap the ball across the net. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll order something online tonight.”

“No need for that,” he says, as he volleys it back. “You can keep the one I fuck you in when we get home.”

I stop moving in the middle of the court as the ball bounces in front of me. He follows through the motion, moving toward the kitchen with a smirk, feeding the fire burning between my legs.

I don’t even care that he said home, like a place we go together. It registers in the back of my brain, and I’m sure I’ll overthink that later, but there are other, more pressing matters at hand.

“Got a problem?” he asks, that smirk digging deeper into his cheek.

“You could say that.”

We meet at the net, separated only by the black mesh and white tape, watching each other closely.

This is usually my favorite place in the world in the summer. It’s where I feel most alive, most energized. I’m the most myself with a paddle in my hand, under the blazing sun, with a deadline on the horizon.

But today, this isn’t where I want to be. This isn’t what I need.

As I search his handsome face—totally unguarded and honest—I realize what I have to do. We might be fake dating for the public, but this thing between us feels very real. The fact that it’s temporary really doesn’t matter. I want to honor whatever this is while it’s here and, with that, comes honesty from me, too. Even when it hurts.

“That was Miles on the phone,” I say, my voice fairly even despite the emotion gathering in my throat again.

The humor disappears from Jory’s face.

“I don’t want to talk about what he said,” I say. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d just let it be. But I don’t want you to think I’m hiding things from you, because I’m not.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

I shrug. “Thank you for caring.”