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He throws me a half-hearted glare that’s more petulant than angry. “When are you next coming over?”
“Same as usual.” I put on my coat and pull my hair free from the collar. “Next Thursday.”
“Are you punishing me?” he asks in an almost pitiful tone. “I have to work and train and not see you for a week and I can’t even wank? That’s too cruel.”
I wink and blow him a kiss. “Just testing how much you like me.”
In reality, I have no way of knowing if he’ll touch himself while I’m gone. But judging by the stricken look on his face, he’ll definitely feel guilty if he does—and that gets me off. I hope he sends me a picture of him doing it. A vicious, perverse part of me wants Noah to be touching himself off to thoughts of me and feeling bad about it. I only wish I was there to see it.
Isneakbackintomy room to find Cammie waiting for me on my bed. She’s lying on her back in matching pink shorts and cropped sweatshirt, wearing one of my facemasks. My amethyst face roller is in her hands, and she’s rubbing it over the facemask, her phone in her other hand.
She looks up when I walk in and close the door behind me, looking like a ghost with her milky facemask.
“Well?” she asks imperiously. “Is this a thing you’re doing now? Spending every night with your new townie boyfriend?”
“Only Thursdays,” I say, tossing my hair back. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“No, you’re justactinglike he is.”
“I just need him to think he is.”
Facing away from Cammie, I take off my coat and slowly undress to get into my pyjamas. I don’t want to look her in the eyes, and I’m not really in the mood for this middle-of-the-night interrogation she’s ambushed me with.
I should just have stayed at Noah’s.
“When’s the gala, then?” Cammie asks.
“At the end of the month.”
“And has he given you any hints he’s thinking of not going?”
As if. Noah would probably step in front of a car if I asked him to. Not that I would ever tell Cammie that. She’d probably just jump to the conclusion that I’m going to run away with Noah and marry him and become one of those hard-eyed, red-faced, three-baby-stroller women you see being interviewed on British news.
I shudder at the thought.
“He’s definitely coming, alright?” I say with a sigh of annoyance. “Get off my case, Cammie.”
“If you’re so sure he’s coming, then why do you keep going back to his house?”
Because I don’t need to fake orgasms with him. Because nobody’s ever gone down on me with such shameless abandon. Because fucking him feels divine. Because I like the way he cleans me up and brings me cups of water and cuddles me afterwards, like he cares, like I matter. Because being around him feels effortless and warm and comforting.
“It’s just part of the plan,” I say with a shrug.
I throw on a long silk kimono and fasten the belt, taking a seat at my dressing table. Hopefully, once I finish my skincare routine and get into bed, Cammie will take the hint and just fuck off.
“What about after the gala, then?” Cammie asks, sitting up.
“What about it?”
My question is dismissive, and my tone is breezy, but my heart sinks a little. I hadn’t thought that far. I don’twantto think that far. And I hate Cammie a little for forcing me to think that far.
“If your plan works and your dad lets you go to fashion school with your trust fund, then what will you do?”
I roll my eyes at her through the mirror. “I’ll go to fashion school with my trust fund, Cammie. God, you’re so dumb.”
She glares at me. “I’m not dumb. You’replayingdumb. You know what I’m asking.”
Setting down my things, I turn to face her with an exasperated sigh. “Ugh, look. I’ll break up with him then, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”
