Page 82 of Raspados & Regret

My whole body goes still with want, raw and embarrassed and badly handled.

I swallow. “Then come get me.”

His eyes flash. “What?”

I sit up straighter, shirt sliding off one shoulder. “If you want me so bad, come get me.”

“Lalo—” He says my name, and it comes out all breathy.

I nod. “You heard me.”

He leans to the side to look at the nightstand. “It’s late.”

“You were the one who called for a late-night dick delivery⁠—”

That makes him smirk. “Yeah, but you live with your mom.”

“You know how doors work, don’t you?” I roll my eyes.

His jaw flexes, and I see him mulling it over. I see him fighting himself. Then he says, “You serious?”

I smile.

“I’m so fucking for real.”

The call ends. No “goodbye.” No “I’ll be right over.”

Just gone.

For a second, I stare at the screen, and it finally clicks that he’s probably coming over. I start scrambling out of bed so fast my knee almost gives out.

“Fuck,” I whisper, laughing under my breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I look around my room like I have time to become a better person.

I do not.

I yank the Raiders shirt down. No. Too much. Too casual. Too, I was waiting, which I was, but he doesn’t need the satisfaction. I pull it off and grab a black tank from the chair. Then I throw that down too.

No.

Fuck it.

I keep the oversized shirt.

Let him suffer.

I fix my glasses.

Then take them off, put them back on, then take them off again because I am apparently hosting my own nervous breakdown.

A soft knock hits the front door less than fifteen minutes later. It’s low and careful. Like even his desperation has manners. My heart jumps into my throat, and I move through the dark house quietly, every floorboard suddenly louder than a gunshot. The living room is dim, light from the streetlamp cutting through the blinds. My mom’s room stays quiet.

Good.

Great.

Terrifying.