Page 76 of The Has-Been

His chest heaves.

Once.

Twice.

His damn hands are still wrapped in my sheets, refusing to touch me.

So, I pry them away, forcing them to find my hips.

His fingers are gentle, like he’s holding glass beneath his touch. When he finally opens his eyes, he stares at me with such longing that it nearly breaks my resolve, knowing this means so much more to him than it does to me.

And now I know, without a second of hesitation, that everything he said was all a lie.

All a fabrication to protect me from himself.

But I’m not so easily broken.

His eyes roam over my body boldly. He makes me solid and sturdy. He is my anchor in the storm.

Liam’s hands trail circles from where they rest at my sides. My thighs spread as I hover atop him, afraid to make the last move by resting myself against his groin.

Suddenly, he uses his strength and forces my hips down against him, all within the brief moment it takes me to let out a breathy gasp.

I try to read his face as our bodies connect.

The fabric of his sweatpants does nothing to hide his own need, but his face remains unreadable as the heat of his gaze sets me alight.

He leans forward, grinding his erection against me as he pulls me closer to him. Tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear, he whispers, his words like a fucking caress against my burning skin, “Do you need a reminder of how good we can be together?”

I nod my head as I gulp down.

His thumb traces over my bottom lip as he pulls away, and I’m not ready for him to be so far away. I take in a deep breath, savoring his smell. My nose flares, like his scent is a fucking aphrodisiac.

He smells fresh. Like clean linen, a sea breeze⁠—

Home.

But my thoughts are cut off as Liam says, “Do you want me to remind you how good I can fuck you? A reminder that it’s me that can make you scream—not a single other person on this campus.”

I know that’s a dig at the date I went on with Noah Pierce.

His words strike a vibrant chord within me as I gasp. He leans back, removing his hands from me, bracing them behind his head as he rests against the headboard.

I can feel that my cheeks are flushed, not from embarrassment, but from the flood of heat overwhelming me. I forgot how filthy his tongue could be, how he could nearly make me come with only his words.

My pulse skitters as he gives me his bedroom grin, all lopsided and lazy, and I forgot how alarmingly handsome he is.

But why isn’t he touching me?

As if he could read my mind, he says, “I’d be happy to remind you, Aubrey. Just not tonight.”

I swallow, blood pounding my temples. With sudden humiliation, I look away, slowly slipping myself off him. But his large hands lock me in place, refusing to allow me to retreat and claim the loss.

His fingers trace my jaw as he forces me to look at him, and God, do I wish he would stop doing that.

Taking my hands in his, his large palms engulfing my own as he encourages them to explore, leading them down, lower, toward his center. He rests my hand over his hardness, then he forces my fingers to curl, so I can feel his arousal.

I bite my lip, feeling how hard he is for me. But before my fingers begin exploring him—his length through the fabric—he pries my hold free with a deep sigh.