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I miss affectionate Hudson. Even though he was only doing it for show. Even though it was fake. Is he worried that what he said to me, when I was in his arms, pressed against him, crossed some kind of line?
Did it cross a line?
If it did, I sure didn’t mind it. Is that something I should be worried about?
I’m overthinking. I tell myself to stop doing that, but maybe it’s hard not to overthink when you’re in a fake relationship with a sinfully sexy grumpy goalie who just said something to you that almost made your panties melt off your hips.
I’m not really sure what the appropriate amount of thinking is in that scenario.
After talking with my friend, I need to go to the bathroom. Hudson hangs out in the living room while I go upstairs. After flushing the toilet, I stare into the mirror and let out a heavy sigh.
Playing a role is exhausting.
Olivia is a drama major. I always respected and admired her talent, but it’s only now that I realize just how much skill and hard work it takes to do what she does, pretending to be someone else in front of all those eyes.
When I exit the bathroom, I see Hudson in the upstairs hall, his head darting around like he’s looking for something.
I hitch an eyebrow. “Hudson?”
His eyes meet mine. He looks relieved. “A couple minutes after you went up, I saw Sean climbing the stairs,” he explains, sauntering towards me. “I thought maybe he was trying to corner you and talk to you alone. I came up to make sure that didn’t happen.” Protectiveness flashes in his eyes. “But it’s like he disappeared,” he shrugs, nodding down the empty second floor hallway.
“Sean’s friends with a lot of the guys who live in this house,” I explain. “He probably just came up with some of them to go to one of their rooms and smoke a joint or something.”
“Hm.” Hudson’s familiar hum. “Either way, Sean’s on this floor right now.”
“Yeah. I guess.” There’s a wry, suggestive look in Hudson’s eyes for some reason.
He takes a step closer. It’s only now I realize how much I missed being close enough to catch his scent, that woodsy, cinnamon smell that’s all man.
“Know what would really make him jealous?” Hudson’s question is a low rasp, his mouth suddenly close enough for me to feel his hot breath against the side of my face.
“What?” I ask.
He takes another step forward. He’s close enough for his shirt to brush against mine, the contact enough to make the fabric scrape against my nipples, which are now tight pebbles again. Tendrils of hot electricity snake through my body.
“If we were in one of these rooms,” he answers, his voice low and husky. “If he could hear us.”
My throat tightens, arousal galloping through my bloodstream. Hudson looms over me, planting his palm firmly against the wall that I’m now backed up against. He’s caging me in, and it’s with a flash of desire that I realize his knee is between my thighs.
I want nothing more in the world than to angle my hips, to move the couple centimeters it would take to make my center connect with the front of his leg. My mouth goes dry as I think of how good it would feel to press against him with the most intimate part of me.
“We’d be loud,” he rasps. “He’d recognize your voice. But you’d be making sounds he never heard before. Sounds you never made with him. He’d go crazy with jealousy. Even if he put his hands over his ears, he’d still hear us. Hear you. Then he’d really know you’ll never go back to him.”
My inhale is shaky. My cheeks are flushed, my heartbeat so hard and frantic that I can feel it in my neck. Not just in my neck, but between my legs, pounding and throbbing, joined with a sharp ache of want. Of need.
Is he going to kiss me again? Even though no one’s here to see? Is he going to gather me up in his arms like he so easily did downstairs, open one of these closed doors, not a care in the world about who the room belongs to, and …
Hudson suddenly takes a step back. My taunt muscles unwind. Disappointment and frustration gnaw at me as I no longer feel the warmth of his body, no longer smell him.
“Hypothetically,” he says, finishing the thought. His voice is scratchy. He clears his throat, a self-conscious expression suddenly rising to his face. “Should we get back downstairs?”
“Sure,” I answer. I’m now aware of a sheen of sweat coating my forehead.
We mingle at the party for a little while longer, and then Hudson walks me home. All the while, he’s keeping his distance again.
At night, in my bed, I do the thing that I’ve been telling myself not to do: I slide my hand inside my shorts and imagine Hudson actually doing the things he talked about on the second floor of the Phi Mu Alpha house.
15
