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I lurched upright. “Did he tell you that?”
She frowned. “No. I just . . . assumed?”
I relaxed. “You know the story with assuming . . .”
“Oh.” I understood her disappointment. I also was battling mixed feelings about the idea.
I nodded to her paper. “What’re you working on?”
“I’ve been working up the guts all evening to ask if you’d review my draft?”
“Hand it over.”
Her smile of gratitude radiated warmly over me. Deserved, I wasn’t sure. But I liked it.
Her article was good, her voice fresh. Other than a few small queries, I had little to critique. She beamed all the way back to her desk.
Uncle Ben caught my eye from his office. Too busy working with students, he only nodded. At the end of the day, he caught me leaving for home.
“Marc.”
Hannah and Liam were nearby. Liam was clicking the end of his pen. “Yeah?”
“Jason caught an earlier flight and I’m picking him up from the airport tonight. We won’t be home until late.”
I nodded dumbly. “I was gonna . . . hang out online anyway.”
I started to leave and paused when he spoke—low, for my ears only. “I wouldn’t have changed anything, you know.”
I left, battling a blurry phone screen as I typed him a message.
Me: Maybe we can do dinner, the three of us, tomorrow?
Uncle Ben: Let’s do that.
At home, I brought in the mail, stopping abruptly when I saw a letter addressed to me from Jack.
Shit. Did I open it? Burn the damn thing?
I stuffed the letter into my desk drawer and sank into my chair. I stared between the Archie tin and my folder of lettered apologies.
What if Jack’s letter was an apology?
Would I be able to forgive him?
With that heavy question hanging over my head, I opened Demon-Slayage and tried to lose myself. But it wasn’t the same without DaMage.
The answer was no, goddammit. I wouldn’t forgive Jack. He wasn’t Hunter’s attacker, but he may as well have been. Never in a million years would I forgive anyone who hurt Hunter.
How dare I expect a different outcome for myself.
Close to ten o’clock at night, a knock at my basement door startled me. I leaped out of bed where I’d been staring at the ceiling listening to Bach. Air whooshed inside in my hurry to open.
Hunter stood with a broad smile and bright cheeks, his hair like a fucking halo. The subtle arch of his eyebrow, the confident sweep of his shoulders, and his Knight in Shining Armor T-shirt under his jacket. Giddiness made me dizzy, and I gripped the door.
Hunter drummed his fingers over his wheels. “My place feels super empty without you. So”—he lifted a backpack—“I brought everything I need for a slumber party.”
I stepped aside. “Fuck, yeah.”
Everything needed for a slumber party meant not only pills and catheters and clean underwear, but also limes, mint, and Bacardi.
I prepared mojitos and smuggled two glasses into my basement. Hunter lay draped lengthwise on my couch and had shucked his shoes, jeans, and jacket. Happy socks decorated with pictures of knights were pulled halfway up his ankles. The geek had dressed to match.
I smirked and dragged a small table over for our jug of mojitos. I stripped out of my jeans. My socks weren’t as fun, but I didn’t care. “Room on that couch for me?”
I mirrored Hunter’s sitting position, legs stretched over the cushions. “Can I . . .” I gestured to his legs.
“Sure.”
I settled them between mine, and Hunter passed me a mojito. We sipped in soft silence, electricity rippling between us, the weight of his heels on my lap stirring me half-hard.
“Tell me something,” Hunter murmured.
“This music we’re listening to? I dig it.”
“Not surprised.”
“Really?”
“I distinctly remember you humming Chopin’s Funeral March, why wouldn’t you listen to Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor?”
I straightened. “You’re into classical music too,” I said accusingly.
“This one sounds particularly tense.”
The top tracks were playing on loop, and this had been the song I’d listened to before Hunter arrived. It had felt like each beat had been plucked from my gut. I glanced at Hunter’s studying gaze and took a large gulp of mojito.
I wanted so badly.
Could I have him?
Hunter set his glass down and gestured to take mine. He curled a finger. “Come here.”
He smelled like soap and shampoo. Sadly no traces of sweat remained from basketball practice. His wide chest cushioned my back comfortably as I settled snug against him.
“Da-da-dum-dum,” Hunter hummed, lips hovering against my ear.
I squirmed on his lap, shivering at the tickle and the accompanying tension.
He looped his arms around my waist and kissed my neck. I turned my head, clumsily snatching his lips with mine.
“Your lips are perfect,” Hunter said, our noses bumping.
I met his mouth in a hot, desperate kiss, body and mind pleading for more.
I wriggled around, straddling him, consuming his mouth, hands roaming through his hair, down his neck, over his biceps. My hard dick pushed against the fabric of my boxers, aching for touch, and Hunter freed me, curling a firm grip around me, pumping slowly.
