I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud. Oh, well. It’s true. I glance around his vehicle and shake my head. Then I grab Vanby the shoulders so he stops spinning. "We'd take my car. The backseat's way bigger and it folds down."
"Good to know," he says, smiling as he reaches across me and undoes my seatbelt.
It's the smile that does it. My defenses are down, my inhibitions are nowhere to be found, and my filter (famous for being airtight and consummately polite) is off-duty. I step out of the car as he does the same, then I turn to face him. “Is it, Van? Is it good to know? Do you file this info away for a rainy day? Does it comfort you to know I want to rip your clothes off? Because I do. I wouldn't even fold them. I'd let them hit the floor with wild abandon,” I say, my finger poking into the broad wall of his chest just to make sure my point is clear. “Do you hear me? Wild. Abandon.”
He nods, and that smile never fucking falters. Because of course he hears me. Everyone in the dorm hears me as we walk inside. I'm not being quiet. I can't regulate my volume at all right now, and not just because of the alcohol.
It's because this man is driving me to the brink of insanity. And I've potty-trained toddlers while soothing a teething baby. I've been to the brink of insanity. I know it well. But this is far beyond that. Van ignites a need in me that I can't quench myself. He's the only thing I want. The only thing that will satisfy me. And he's so far away.
"I'm right here, Josie," he tells me, bringing me back to the moment. And he is right here, in my doorway. I fumble with my keys for a minute before he gently takes them and swipes my ID. The lock hisses as it disengages and Van tucks my lanyard back into my bag.
We step inside and the room shrinks. It's a single studio, so it's never been described as spacious, but it's downright miniscule now. Van takes up every extra inch of space. And his scent will linger long after he leaves, of that I'm sure. But I don'twant to think of Van leaving right now. I just want to think about him staying, like I wish he'd stayed three years ago. I wish I'd have let him in, told him my secrets, or begged him not to go. I wish I'd been braver then, more confident. I wish I'd been louder, that I'd have told him what I wanted. That I'd have told him he was being selfish and ridiculous, that of course I was his girlfriend, of course I wanted to be with him. That I'd have explained that half my heart was half an hour away, but I had room for him, too.
I stayed quiet then, and I've regretted it ever since.
But I can't stay quiet now.
“Come with me,” I say, dragging him a few feet across the room and to my bed. I turn to face him, ready to tell him I want him to stay with me tonight, that I'm done waiting. I'm done being patient. I'm done with guessing games. But I'm also done forming remotely coherent thoughts because Van's taken off his hoodie. He's wearing a shirt, but it's tight across his chest and arms and it rides up a little high, exposing a glorious sliver of skin just above his low-slung sweats. I let my gaze run over his body. This must be why so many people like drinking. Sure, my head is fuzzy and I can't feel my nose, but all the walls I've built so carefully have crumbled. The worries that hold me back and make me hesitate are invisible. I've been sneaking glances at Beckett Vandaele for far too long. Tonight, I'm going to look as long as I like. I want to touch, too. Visions of us in his bedroom have played in my mind all week. They're echoes, really, of all the times I've let my mind wander to what it was like back then, and what it could be like now.
Van takes a step toward me and peels my coat from my shoulders. He hangs it on the hook by the door and puts his hoodie right next to it before stepping into my little kitchenette and drawing water from the tap. After filling two glasses, he hands one to me. “This is for tonight and the other is for whenyou wake up. You should take some painkillers, too, if you have any.”
Taking a sip of water, I point to my nightstand, and watch as Van opens one of the drawers then goes completely still. It takes a second for my addled brain to tune in, but as soon as it does, I mentally add this moment to the list of things I’ll be mortified about tomorrow. I do keep medicine in the second drawer of my nightstand, but Van must have opened the first drawer. While I could argue that the vibrating silicone wands inside that drawer will cure almost any ill, they are not the painkillers Van was hunting for.
"Second drawer," I manage to squeak.
He finds the right one and passes it over to me. I twist the cap and try hard to line up the arrows, but that's tough enough to do when I haven't been drinking. Right now, it's an insurmountable challenge. Van takes the bottle from me, turns the cap halfway, and pops it open easily before shaking a few into my palm.
He's taking care of me, and I like that way too much. I'm used to being the caretaker and it's nice to be on the receiving end. But as much as I appreciate all he's doing, this is not what I had in mind when I pictured us in my room.
Heat pools deep in my center as I remember where we left off last week. I can't stop thinking about the feel of his hands on my body. About all the times I've lain in my bed and pictured him there with me.
He's here now, but he's not stripping me naked. He's not lavishing attention on my breasts, even though just eight days ago he called them perfect. His head is not between my thighs and neither is his hand. He's not kissing me or telling me to suck his cock and take him deep.
Why isn't he doing those things?
I would very much like him to do those things.
Instead, he's giving me water and headache meds to stave off a hangover. And I have no doubt that in two minutes he's going to tell me to sleep it off as he walks right out the door.
In fact, the way he's raking his hand through his hair and closing his eyes and pacing the too-small space makes me think he's ready to leave now. The movement makes his shirt ride higher, revealing even more skin.
I let Van walk away once, and I'm not making that mistake again.
"Your shirt's too small," I tell him bluntly.
"It is," he agrees, his mouth twisting into a wry smile as he fingers the hem of his too-short, too tight tee. “Because he damn-near burned our house down, Mikalski is on laundry duty and asked if anybody had anything to add. I tossed in this shirt and a brand-new hoodie. I even thanked the guy, never thinking he'd basically boil our clothes on the hot cycle and then toss them all in the dryer to finish the job. You should see Santos. He now has a full wardrobe of crop tops."
It's a funny story and any other time, I'd laugh. But I'm not thinking about my friend Pete in a crop top or the outrage on any of the other guys' faces when they saw their shrunken clothes. I'm just thinking about one thing, one person. My mind has a singular track these days and it leads straight to Van. "You should give it to me," I say, reaching out and tugging on his shirt.
"You want my shirt, Jos?" he asks, his voice a little rough.
"Yes," I say, taking a step closer and tracing the wolf outline with my finger. "I want it because it's soft and it smells like you, and the one that I have from before is threadbare."
Silence fills the room as I realize I've just admitted to swiping one of Van's shirts. And keeping it for three years.
Oops.
Tomorrow, if I remember this part, I will be embarrassed. No, I'll be mortified. Van mustn't mind too much, though,because he reaches back and takes hold of the shirt at the neck and tugs it off. He shakes it out and folds it neatly before handing it over.
