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The sound of steady breathing lulls me to almost-sleep quickly. Just before sleep overcomes me completely, I hear him whisper my name softly. When I hum sleepily in response, his grip on me tightens as his lips kiss my neck.
“You can always call me.”
19
JACKSON
I can't stop touchingher.
Her soft hair, the slender nape of her neck, the dip in her waist. Everything and anything. I’ve never considered myself a particularly touchy-feely person but I can't get enough of her. I think it has something to do with the fact I can't quite believe that Icantouch her all the time. That she wants me to.
I get to draw her too. I could draw her all day, and some days I damn near do; one flick through my sketchbook would convince anyone I'm a stalker. Luna doesn't mind, though. In fact, she encourages it. She likes being'my muse' as she so graciously dubs herself. Not that I care.
She can call herself whatever the hell she wants if the word 'my' sits before it.
'My girlfriend' would be preferable.
But baby steps.
Even right now, when I'm supposed to be studying, I couldn't resist ditching my textbooks in exchange for my sketchbook. Something about her stretched out at the foot of my bed, typing rapidly on her laptop, hair spilling out a messy bun, and glasses I didn't even know she wore until a couple days ago perched on her nose, have my fingers itching for a pencil and paper.
I could sit here all day, perfectly content drawing quietly, if whatever she’s smashing away at didn’t have her growing increasingly frustrated.
She keeps messing with her fingers, that’s her tell. Twisting her ring, bending her pinkies back in some freaky contortionist move, pressing down on her thumbnails.
When I coast my free hand up and down her bare leg in an effort to get her attention, she kicks me away, the crease between her forehead intensifying. I call her name softly and she doesn't even glance up, her glasses crooked as she scrunches her nose in concentration. Tossing my sketchbook to the side, I wrap my fingers around the ankle closest to me and squeeze.
Nothing.
“Luna.” She waves me off with a flick of her fingers. “Luna.”
Irritated blue eyes meet mine. “What?”
The snapped word trails off in a surprised yelp when I tighten my grip and yank her toward me. Carefully setting her laptop out of harm's way, I scoop her onto my lap. She screeches and claws at me, complaining about needing to finish something, and the only way to shut her up?
Pressing my lips against hers.
I can’t help but smirk when Luna instantly relaxes, becoming a ragdoll in my lap. I keep it slow and sweet, much to her disappointment. When I pull away and she whines in protest, I reprimand her by snapping the waistband of her leggings. “What's up with you?”
“Nothing.” Just like that, she hardens again. Crossing her arms over her chest, pouting like a child, fingers wildly tapping against her forearms. “I’m trying to work.”
My hands close over hers to halt the fidgeting. “You're all twitchy.”
Her cheeks flush as she drops her gaze, squirming in my lap. I stifle a groan as her ass continuously brushes against my crotch—intentionally, I bet—and I grip her hips to stop the fucking wriggling. “Tell me what's wrong.”
She doesn't. She won't even look at me. Ironic, considering the hell she gave me over eye contact, or lack thereof. Still does, actually; my inability to hold her gaze is her favorite thing to tease me about.
Twirling her hair around my fist and tugging, I force her gaze upwards and give her an'I know you're full of shit so you might as well spill'look.
With an indignant sigh, she drops her arms. The muscles in my stomach clench as her fingers find the hem of my t-shirt, brushing my skin as she fiddles with the fabric. “I'm just having a bad day.”
“Care to elaborate?”
No, apparently. Luna remains silent as she casts a wistful glance at her laptop. Funny, considering she looked like she wanted to snap the thing in half about five minutes ago.
“Did something happen?” I prompt gently. She shakes her head. “Is it class?” She shakes her head again. “I can guess all day, sweetheart, if you make me.”
“I'm notmakingyou do anything,” she retorts, that signature bratty lilt to her voice.
