Page 74

Oh.

Oh.

My hand finds his wrist.

He shifts closer without breaking the kiss, one thumb brushing slowly along my cheekbone. He makes a low sound and pulls me over into his lap. His hands stay on my waist, over my shirt.

I can feel him. Hard and thick and pressed right against my core through his boxers and my sweatpants, and the second I settle my weight he exhales like I knocked the air out of him.

“Fuck Blaire.” He practically growls into my mouth.

I rock once, testing the feeling. The friction is immediate. I’m already wet. Have been since I walked out and saw him sitting there with no shirt, looking like a fucking god. His hands tighten on my hips but he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t try and rock me against him again. He just holds me there and kisses me deeper, his tongue slowly peaking at my lips.

I grind down again. I can’t help it, he’s so hard I don’t know how it doesn’t hurt him, the length of him trapped between us, and every time I move I drag right over it.

“Fuck,” he whispers against my mouth. “You’re—fuck. I can feel how wet you are.”

“Don’t say stuff like that.” My face burns.

His voice is wrecked. “You’re doing it. I’m just sitting here trying not to come in my fucking underwear like I’m a teen.”

I laugh, shaky, and kiss him again so I don’t have to respond to that. His hands slide up my back, still over the shirt. He doesn’t try to take it off. He doesn’t reach under my waistband. He just kisses me until I’m shaking in his lap, until I’m rocking in a rhythm I can’t even pretend is accidental, until the ache between my legs is sharp enough that I almost say fuck the STD test.

I pull back. Forehead to his. Both of us breathing hard.

“We’re not having sex.” I pant out.

“Okay.” He agrees, equally out of breath.

“I mean it. I want to wait for the test.”

He looks at me for a second, jaw tight, then says, quieter, “Even my fingers? My mouth? Please, sweet girl. Let me do something. Let me make you come. You don’t have to touch me. You don’t have to take anything off if you don’t want to. I just—” His thumb strokes my hip through the shirt. “I want to take care of you.”

My stomach flips.

I want to say yes. I want his mouth. I want his fingers. I want to stop thinking.

I also want to keep this shirt on until the lights are off and maybe forever.

If he gets his hands under my clothes, he’s going to see. And then we’re going to have a conversation I am not ready to have about how different I look now. The test is the responsible thing to do, it also conveinitly gives me enough time to figure out how to say, I’m scared you’ll look at me and miss the body I had at twenty-two.

“I want to wait,” I say.

He searches my face.

“Okay,” he says, no trace of sulking in his voice. “We’ll wait.”

I nod. I should move. I’m still sitting on him, still aching, still so wet it’s embarrassing.

He exhales, then shifts me.

Not off him. Over. Onto one of his thighs, my knees on either side of it, the thick muscle pressed right up against me through the sweatpants. His hands settle on my hips again.

“What—what are you doing?” I stammer.

“Helping,” he says. “Without touching you.”

“You’re touching me.”