Even back in college, I was never with him in such undiluted quantities as I have been over the last two weeks. In my experience, most people begin to grate when you’re around them too much. Unfortunately for both of us, that hasn’t been the case with Deiss. I was better off not knowing he gets strangely sweet when he’s tired or that he tends to look after everyone but in such a subtle way they rarely seem to realize it’s happening. Maybe he’s right to use Simone as a buffer between us. Maybe I need to build a buffer of my own.
“Text me when you get home safely,” I say to Phoebe as Mac drags her out the door. Hopefully, the walk home will sober them up. “And if you talk to Seth, tell him I’m in for a double date with Brad.”
“What?” Simone groans from the couch, and I roll my eyes, more to keep them from flicking toward Deiss than in response to Simone. “I wanted to go!”
Phoebe laughs, holding the door open with her foot. “Just last week you were celebrating how many followers you have on Friendsta. Surely some of those fans must be single guys who want to date you.”
Simone lifts up, her face appearing over the back of the couch. “Everyone wants to date me. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I want to go on a double date with you and two guys who are members of the same band,” Simone says.
“I’ll work on Harry Styles and Niall Horan for next month,” Phoebe says.
Mac groans, but Simone’s eyes widen at the idea.
“Deal,” she says with a satisfied smile.
* * *
—
I lie in the dark, silently reminding myself of all the reasons it’s a bad idea to attempt to talk to Deiss right now. There are so many, but there’s one obvious reason that should make it the easiest: he doesn’t want me to. I can’t push myself on someone else. I can’t be so needy.
So there’s no explanation for sliding out of bed as quietly as a thief in the night. I sneak on tiptoes past Simone, asleep on the couch. The moonlight shines on her open mouth, glinting off the strand of drool that connects her face to the throw pillow. I shiver, a draft from the open window causing my bare legs to prickle. This is a mistake, but I can’t help myself. I try to convince myself I just want to clear things up, but it’s not quite believable.
My eyes flicker back to Simone when I knock, and again when Deiss eases his door open, his brow furrowed. I press on the door to open it further and slide inside, but he holds it firm, blocking the gap with his body. I choke at the sight of his bare chest and the two etched lines that arrow into his boxers, then cough awkwardly to cover it.
“I couldn’t sleep until I apologized for making things weird. I’m sorry about tonight,” I whisper. “Can we just forget it happened?”
His eyes drop to the cleavage popping out beneath my tank top, then dip down past my tiny shorts to my bare legs. Slowly, he drags them back up.
“No problem.” He curves a hand around the back of my neck, causing my heart to pound in my chest. Warm fingers tug me forward, and his head dips toward mine, hovering just long enough for me to pray he won’t stop. Then his mouth is on mine, shocking me like an electrical current.
I feel his kiss in every part of my body, my skin lights up with it. His scruff scrapes at my chin and his lips burn against mine. He tastes like safaris and concerts and all the things I’m only just discovering are right for me. My arms go around him, nails digging into his bare skin when he deepens the kiss. A moan escapes my throat, and he pulls away, leaving me blinking up at him in dismay.
“We should probably forget that happened, too,” he whispers, his hand still in my hair.
My heart falls into the pit of my stomach.
“Or . . .” He grins dangerously.
“Or.” I exhale the word determinedly. I don’t care how bad it might be for our friendship or my heart. It all pales in comparison to the heat of his mouth on mine. “I vote for or.”
I barely get through the words before he’s lifting me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, and dragging me into his room. Our mouths collide as he pushes the door shut with my back. His hands grip my butt as mine explore the muscles in his back, and he doesn’t stop kissing me, not even when he carries me across the room to his bed.
We make out like horny teenagers—stroking and licking and grinding until I’m panting—maybe because this moment has been building since we were. But then his head dips and doesn’t come back up. That gorgeous mouth of his keeps traveling downward, tracing a trail of fire the length of my body. The world goes hazy as he slips the straps of my tank top down, nudging it down with his chin as his tongue swirls patterns against my breasts. Scruff scrapes the tender skin, and the silk of a million tiny licks soothes it. I hum my pleasure, feeling like an instrument he’s bringing to life.