I hesitate.
What the hell was that?
I shake my head, try to move on, but my stomach twists. Maybe it’s not justPetit. Maybe there’s something else in me I’ve never looked at too closely, something that twitches around certain types. It’s the fire, the tension, and that heavy silence that makes you want to break it with your mouth.
Merde!
I swallow hard as my pulse kicks.No.That’s not what this is. I’m not thinking aboutPayneright now.Fuck, no. I scroll faster. Dismiss it. Bury it.
I’m about to slam the laptop shut when a video catches my eye. It’s a bigger guy, muscled and tattooed, pushing a smaller, wiry one against the wall, kissing him like he’s theonly thing that exists. The smaller guy has wild hair and wide brown eyes.
They almost look like us,Petitand me.
“Okay,” I mutter, nodding. “It’s just a test. For science. I’m a biologist now.”
And yeah, I know it’s bullshit to treat it like a lab test, but right now, I’m grasping at anything that makes this less real.
I click.
I stroke.
But the movement feels empty, like someone else’s hand on someone else’s body. Like I’m not even here. I slam the lid shut and toss the laptop aside, not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
Maybe I’m not bi after all.
I close my eyes to block it all out, but the moment they shut, he’s there, with his cheeks flushed, hiccupping, half-wrecked, every breath a question. I remember the scar on his hip. The warmth of his weight against my back when I carried him, the defiant fire in his eyes.
I’m hard again in a heartbeat, no porn needed, no fiction. Just him. Every broken, breathtaking piece of him.
My hand moves again before I can stop it, and science offers no explanation for why one stroke turns into two. For why I picture the way his breath caught when I touched his forehead. His little scoff when I flicked his nose. His thighs clenching, his hoodie sliding up just enough to flash bruised skin and sharp hips. The way he said my name in outrage when I picked him up.
One more stroke, and I come harder than I have in my entire fucking life. My eyes roll back, and my whole spine arches off the mattress like I’ve been struck by lightning.
Panting, I blink down at myself, the mess spread acrossmy stomach, and the hand responsible, still twitching between my thighs.
And then the horror hits.
Fuck.
I grab the nearest cloth—maybe a shirt or a towel, I don’t even look—and wipe myself off in a rush. Then I scramble for my phone on the nightstand, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise the inside of my chest. My fingers jab the screen until the call rings through.
“Maman.” I gasp when she picks up.
“I saw it,mon soleil,” she says softly. “I watched it on TV. I’m so sorry.”
For a wild second, my post-orgasm brain thinks she means my explosive masturbation.
Shaking myself, I take a deep breath. No. My racing failure is not why I called my closest confidant.
“Maman,” I blurt, voice cracking as I sit naked in my shame. “Am I…bi?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alaina
“No, I’m sorry, Mister. We don’t have that here.”
“You sure you don’t haveanycold medicine?” I plead with the woman behind the counter of the hotel’s reception desk. “Something basic. Cough syrup. Decongestant.Anything.”
