And why is it so quiet in here? He lives in a campus apartment, for God’s sake. His neighbors should be throwing a kegger and blasting music through the walls.
Before I know it, our shirts are gone and his hand moves down my rib cage as he settles on top of me, trailing kisses along my neck. I stare down his broad back and frown. I should probably do something here, like sink my nails into his shoulder blades or grab his butt or something.
Meh.
I slowly flatten my palms against his back in a symmetrical way and try to relax my arms. Why is he always so warm? And why the frack is he still sucking on my neck?
He just ate popcorn and now he’s tonguing my throat and leaving a trail of buttery germs in his wake. And I swear to God his scruffy jaw is going to rub my skin raw.
The butter germs start to spread lower as my eyes wander back to his desk. There’s not even a pen out of place. Left-brained artists are so weird. Should I have my eyes closed? Why is he breathing so hard?
Focus, Pixie. Focus.
His hands run over my body but avoid my scar completely. He never touches my scar. I’m not sure if it’s because it freaks him out or if he’s just being careful. Probably a little bit of both, which is unfortunate because, well, my boobs are right there and I don’t want my boyfriend to be afraid of my boobs—which are flawless, by the way. I might have a nasty gash marring the valley between the girls, but the boobies themselves are pristine. Still. Matt avoids my chest for the most part. Such a shame.
Is that a piece of gum on his ceiling?
My eyes flutter a bit as his hand glides over my thigh and up between my legs. My skirt has ridden up, so I’m pretty much just lying here in my panties, holding on to his overly warm back as his jeans press against the inside of my legs.
He brings his popcorn tongue up to my mouth and kisses me deeply. I force my eyes shut and try to concentrate on kissing him back as the scruff on his jaw scratches against my face like a bristle brush. I just know my face is going to be all red after this. Maybe I’ll buy him a new razor. But not an electric one. Those aren’t always reliable.
Who invented electric razors? What guy was shaving his face one day and thought, You know what this flat knife against my throat needs? A battery. Perhaps I should invent a razor with a cord—
Matt yanks back from me and sits up on his knees with a frustrated exhale.
“What?” I sit up and cover my boobs. “What’s wrong?”
I notice his hair looks perfectly styled, not a single blond strand out of place. Aren’t people supposed to have messed-up hair after sex—or almost sex? That’s probably my fault. Shoot. I need to remember to mess up his hair.
He runs a hand over his mouth. “Maybe I should ask you.”
“Uh…” I glance at his spotless desk again.
“You’re not into this, Sarah.”
“Yes, I am,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Sex. Let’s do this.” I roll my hips in an embarrassingly unflattering way and clap my hands together like I’m breaking up a football huddle.
Go team, go!
He shakes his head. “This happens every time. It’s like the moment we start getting hot, your head goes somewhere else. If you don’t want to have sex, that’s fine. Really. But I can’t keep doing this almost-but-not-really thing when you’re not into it. It makes me feel like an ass. Like I’m pushing you or something.”
“No, no, no. You’re not pushing and you’re not an ass at all. It’s me. I swear I can do better. I will do better.”
I stare at his bare chest, shadows of orange lining his hard muscles, and try to feel something naughty.
Nothing.
Maybe I am a lesbian.
He sighs. “I don’t want you to do better, Sarah. I want you to want it.”
“I do want it.”
Right?
Right?
He looks at the bed for a moment before slowly climbing off and pulling his shirt back on. “Why don’t you get dressed and we can talk about this later, okay?” He attempts a smile, but all I can do is nod back.
I hide my face in my hands and let out a long, heavy breath. Why don’t I want to have sex with my superhot and totally sweet boyfriend?
What is wrong with me?
10 Levi
What is wrong with me?
I pull into the inn, sexually frustrated and generally pissed at the universe as I park in the back of the lot. Everything was going fine with Savannah—that was her name, right? Savannah? Susanna?—until she mentioned she was an art major, and any hotness I’d hoped to indulge in with her instantly evaporated.
I turn off the engine and run a hand through my hair.
Art? ART? What the hell, universe?
The girl had a streak of green paint on the inside of her elbow, for God’s sake. And she was blonde. And smelled like flowers. She was two stained sneakers and a green-eyed scowl away from being Pixie, so I smoothly excused myself from her company and went in search of a different distraction. But by that time every girl in the mansion was either trashed or taken, and really, who was I kidding? No distraction in the world would numb the hot ache in my chest.
Damn Pixie. Moving in next door and fucking up my sex life.
As I exit my truck, a black car pulls up to the front of the inn. I look at the time. 3:35 a.m. This is either a senior citizen arriving very early for check-in, which has happened, or it’s some kind of trouble.
I stand in the shadows of the tall willow trees beside the lot and watch as the passenger door opens and a figure climbs out.
Despite the darkness and the distance between us, I instantly know it’s Pixie. Her straightened hair hangs down her back, shining in the moonlight against her sweater as she steps forward in the same man-eating skirt she had on earlier.
Trouble it is.
A guy I’ve never seen before climbs out of the driver’s seat, and I straighten my shoulders.
Maybe he’s a cabdriver in the nicest cab ever. Maybe he was the designated driver tonight and Pixie got a little tipsy. Maybe he’s a gay friend who gives her pointers on what to wear, like that damn skirt.
The designated gay cabdriver leans down and starts kissing Pixie.
Or maybe he’s the icing on this cake of despair I’ve been eating all night.
Watching them kiss makes the ache burn hotter, and I absently push a hand against my sternum.
They part ways and Icing Boy drives away as Pixie lets herself inside the inn. I wait a moment before leaving the shadows and following after her. The front door creaks a little when I step inside. The lights are dimmed and there’s not a soul around as I quietly walk through the lobby toward the east wing staircase.
Pixie’s at the foot of the stairs, silently cursing as she rummages around in the large purse slung over her shoulder. The floorboards beneath my feet groan as I move forward, and she whips her head up, relaxing a twinge when she sees me.