Page 124 of The Faking Game
“He was always in the library when we were slacking off. He’d study advanced Latin. Used to smoke back then too. God. Glad he stopped.”
Her hand is on the pillow between us. I want to reach out and thread my fingers through hers again.
“I pulled him into our circle to help with our Latin homework.”
“West!”
I chuckle. “He made itveryclear that he would help no one without getting something back.”
“Good for him.”
“Mhm.”
“The fifth guy,” she says. Her voice is tentative. “That’s who used to own the house for the Paradise Lost party, isn’t it? I remember that you were five, back then. Rafe didn’t share much. But he shared that.”
I don’t want to talk about this.
How Hadrian and I were the only ones who knew each other that first year at Belmont. What happened that unraveled it all, threads pulling at a tapestry.
“Yes. But things changed,” I say. “I thought you were tired.”
“I am. But I’m also…”
I lift an eyebrow. “Also what?”
“You’re here. In my bed.” She smiles again. “I’m not sure I know how to relax.”
“Has anyone ever held you?”
“No. I’ve never cuddled with anyone.” She doesn’t say it with any sadness. Just a statement of fact.
I reach for her. “Come here.”
She lets me tug her closer. “Like this?”
“Almost.” I curve my arm, pulling her closer with an arm around her waist. She comes to settle with her head on my shoulder and her hand on my chest. “That’s it. Let me hold you.”
She’s a warm weight against the side of my body. Slowly, breath by breath, she relaxes into my arms. Tension leaking out of her. “Oh. This is nice.”
“Mhm. Don’t sound so surprised.”
There’s a smile in her voice. “You’re warm.”
“It’s not every day I’m complimented on my homeostasis.”
She laughs. Her leg finds its way over mine, and she burrows against me. Like I’m a pillow. The luckiest damn pillow in the world.
It’s distracting how good she feels in my arms. Distracting because I’m not supposed to have these thoughts, not tonight. I can’t get hard.
It’ll ruin everything.
“Will your arm fall asleep?” she asks. Her finger traces circles on my chest, almost like she’s not aware she’s doing it. Sketching through the fabric.
“Maybe. But that’s my concern, not yours.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“You sound skeptical. Between the two of us, who’s the expert on how men think?”
