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I watch as he walks around my room picking up picture frames or crap that’s lying on the dresser. He eventually makes it to my desk that’s covered in more crap. Our housekeeper dusts and vacuums but refuses to touch my mess. He opens drawers and digs around. I don’t stop him because it’s familiar. So damn familiar it is like hacking away at my chest.
Stay.
I plead silently with him.
I’ve longed for his presence.
“Do you whack off to thoughts of me?” he asks as he opens a stick of gum he finds.
“Don’t be a dick,” I bite out.
He turns and flashes me a devilish grin. “That non-answer tells me you do. You’re gay and you want me.” He shrugs and starts going through a notebook.
“You’re awfully presumptuous for having not spoken to me in two years,” I mumble. “I have a date tonight.”
His shoulders tense and he turns his head to scowl at me. “With who?”
“Leah.”
He laughs and turns back to his task, popping his gum loudly.
“Why is that so funny?” I grit out.
“Because,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re gay.”
I open my mouth to argue—not because I’m not, but because he’s pissing me off—when my words die in my throat. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it on the floor.
This is Copeland.
Shirtless freaking Copeland.
For as long as I’ve known him, he’s preferred to walk around without a shirt when at home or at mine. It’s not a big deal. It means nothing. Except now, I can’t stop looking at him. He’s filled out in the last two years and he has ink.
“Tattoos?” I mutter, my voice raspy and low.
His palm splays over stormy clouds artfully drawn on his pectoral muscle. “My designs. I want to learn to do the tattoos myself, but my dad would shit.”
He frowns and meets my stare. Our dads are assholes. They rule us with their wallets. We’re trust fund babies and probably always will be. Neither of us is brave enough to bust out of this mold our dads have put us in. Our rebellion was always a quiet one…but ours.
“They’re good,” I admit, my gaze greedily roaming all over his other tattoos. There are words written under each collarbone that I want to read, but that would require staring at him for an uncomfortably long time.
He picks up a sharpie off the desk and walks over to the other side of the bed. My heart rate speeds up when he climbs onto the bed on his knees. His body is too perfect. Another painful stab. Where my muscles are larger from football, his are lean from good genetics and regular swimming. My gaze lingers at his abs—the enticing trail of hair below his belly button that dips below the waistband of his jeans. I lick my lips and peel my gaze from him.
Lying on his side, he pulls my casted arm toward him and uncaps the sharpie with his teeth before spitting out the cap.
“Gonna draw a big dick on here. Maybe you with some hearts in your eyes,” he taunts in his cruel tone he’s perfected over the past two years.
I clench my jaw and close my eyes. Whatever. If he wants to be an asshole, then so be it. I’m not pushing him out of my bed, that’s for damn sure. I’ve longed to just talk to him. His hot hand gently grips my fingertips and positions my hand where he wants it. We’re quiet as he draws. Eventually, I peek open my eyes to look at his handiwork.
It’s a cock. Just like he said.
But one of the feathered variety. The rooster has evil eyes and claws, but looks pretty badass. I watch, mesmerized, as he effortlessly draws something horrifyingly beautiful on my green cast. Time passes as he fills the cast with his art. When the sharpie presses into the skin of my arm, he laughs quietly.
“Ran out of canvas,” he mutters.
I grit my teeth and drag my gaze to his face as he continues his artwork along my arm. His blue eyes are intense and not so frosty. Dark brows are furled together as he concentrates. He has the perfect nose aside from a small dent. My mind drifts to the past.
“She said you kissed her,” Cope bellows, storming into my bedroom.
I don’t look away from my video game and instead flip him off.
“You asshole,” he growls. He kicks the side of my chair so hard, my controller goes flying and I hit the floor.
“What the hell?” I roar, rising to my feet.
Cope’s pissed over some dumb girl he thinks I kissed? I don’t even like girls. He doesn’t know that, though.
“Back off,” I warn.
Rage flickers in his eyes and he charges at me. He tackles me to the floor. My fist connects with his ribs as he knees me in the groin. I hiss, elbowing him across the face. His hand finds my throat as mine grabs the game controller.
