Deep End(17)

“I didn’t ask,” Lukas says.

“Don’t you want to know?”

“No.”

“And are you . . . okay with that?”

“My ex sleeping with someone else? Why should it matter whether I am okay with it?” He could stuff so much recrimination and self-pity in the words, but he’s a straight arrow. I detect only genuine puzzlement.

He and Pen really were perfect for each other. Extroverted and reserved. Grumpy and sunshine. Warm and frosty. They remind me a bit of Josh and me—except that I was the Lukas of the relationship. “You just recently broke up. Are you really not jealous?”

“Nope.”

“Is it a Swedish thing?”

“Maybe? I’ll ask my brothers. They might have some insight.”

I catch a small smile with the corner of my eye, and it relaxes me just enough to ask, “Do you still have feelings for her?”

It’s so not my business. He tells me, though. “Sure. We’ve been through a lot.”

It’s not really an answer, but it echoes what Pen said. I wonder what it is that ties them together. Blood pacts? Body in the trunk of their car? Same sleeper cell?

I should tell him that I’m better, that he can let go of me, but my shoulder is in the throes of a hundred little orgasms. Which must be why I blurt out the question that has been buzzing in my head for days. “If Pen hadn’t . . . if you guys hadn’t broken up, would you have just gone with vanilla sex for the rest of your life?”

He mutters something under his breath. “Put like that, it sounds . . .” He exhales a laugh. His grip remains steady .

“Sad?”

“Frustrating.” A pause. “But yes, I would have.”

“Because you love that much?”

“Because I made a commitment to her.”

That’s more stubborn than noble, I think. Or maybe I say it out loud, because a soft laugh slides out of him, and my cheeks burn. “What I meant is, I don’t think that settling for an unsatisfying sex life because you take your commitments seriously automatically makes you a better person than Pen, who—”

“I know what you meant, Scarlett.” His thumb digging into my trapezium feels so good, I lose track of my mortification.

The thing is, I love reading Mafia erotica as much as the next girl with daddy issues, and my attraction for fictional guys making scenes in iconic, over-the-top ways is among my most virulent traits. But jealousy is born less of love and more of insecurity. And it intrigues me, the way Lukas obviously cares about Pen without being possessive of her.

His quiet self-assurance seems surprisingly mature. Boys around me, they feel like . . . well. Boys. But Lukas might already be a man.

“So,” I ask, “are you going to . . .” He finally lets go. My shoulder begs me to whine at him to continue, but I shut it up and turn to him. “Start seeing other people? Ball gag them, or . . . whatever it is that you prefer.”

His smile sits there, at the corner of his lip. “Still considering.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’re single. Isn’t it simple?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

“You can probably go to a bar tonight and find five hundred options.”

“Five hundred. ”

“Well . . . many. Several.”

He nods like I’m making a good point, but then asks, “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“Oh. No.”

“Then you’re free to fuck whoever you like.”

A sparkling, unusual sort of heat drips into my stomach. Spreads all over my chest. “I guess I am.”

“You could go to a bar. Find some options.”

“Five hundred?” I smile.

He doesn’t. “Realistically, no. But several. Many. You could look for someone who’ll give you what you need.”

Drip. Drip. “Yeah. I could.”

“Will you?”

“It’s not so . . .”

“Simple?”

I face-planted right into that one. I rock on my heels and try to think of a witty comeback, but my brain is a rotting wasteland.

His mouth curves. “I don’t think Pen’s date was the real reason you were anxious.”

“Yeah. I think it was.”

“We cleared that out, and you’re not any less nervous.” He cocks his head. “Is it me? Or men, in general?”

Jesus. Does he always just—say what he thinks? Narrate the world as he sees it? Shouldn’t some things stay unspoken?

“I need to go,” I say, holding my hand out until Lukas returns my backpack. But even then, I stand rooted in front of him for several beats, until the realization hits me that I’m hoping he’ll say something else.

Ask me another question, maybe.

Ask me to . . .

Oh my god. Pen’s drunken ramblings must have wormed their way into my prefrontal cortex.

“Thank you again. I really appreciate you coming out.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

And what? We chat amiably about the rigors of collegiate sports?

I don’t think that’s what I want. I’d rather not think about what he wants. “No, thank you. Have a good night, Lukas.” I walk away—and after a few steps I look over my shoulder and he’s still there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, haloed against the streetlights. He’s invincible. And golden. And focused wholly on me.