“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
I shake my head. “Sorry should be saved for rejections to colleges, breakups and funerals. Not for a girl who can’t eat phallic foods in public.”
“You know this is more than that.”
I suppose my life has been changing a lot these past few months. I was never normal, but the fact that this scandal has taken away the option of being normal—that hurts. I contemplate everything for a second.
Then I mutter, “I just don’t want to feel sorry for myself anymore.” I don’t deserve to wallow in self-pity. Like my mom has said numerous times, this is my bed, and I’m going to have to sleep in it, dirty sheets and all.
He walks forward, closer, and my heart thumps with each inch squashed between us. When his arms wrap around my neck, it takes all of my energy to stay flat on my feet and not jump him right here.
I stay grounded and channel my inner-statue, probably the least sexy posture I can muster.
“I’m proud of you,” he tells me. “As long as ‘not feeling sorry for yourself’ doesn’t connote holing up at home.”
“Maybe a little. Like half. Half-connotes,” I admit.
He tries really hard not to smile, so I suppose I win. Or half-win. Or would that be a draw?
His heady amber eyes fall to my lips, and my heart bashes against my ribcage, as if telling me now now now. But I don’t say a word.
His hand slowly rises up my neck, clutching the back of my head while his gaze devours me whole. Any chance to breathe has been thwarted by the desire fueled in his eyes, the one that I’m sure I share. My lips part, and he watches me closely, his chest rising and falling in sync with mine.
He teases me first, kissing my cheek so lightly.
I whimper, “Lo.”
And then his lips meet mine with carnal desperation, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. He lifts me up around his waist, his hand lost in my hair, his other keeping me firm against him. My palms disappear beneath his black crew-neck, dying at the ridges of his abs, at his closeness. I don’t unbutton him.
Not yet anyway.
But the spot between my legs pulses, and I tighten my thighs around his waist so hard that he groans in arousal. He stares at me while we both catch our breath for a second.
My lower back digs into the porcelain sink, and Lo never removes his narrowed, intense gaze from mine, the one that unravels me completely, that soaks my panties and leaves me bare.
He skillfully unbuttons my jean shorts and adjusts me so they slide off both legs. His slow pace speeds my heart, fearful that it’ll end at any second.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, practically panting for oxygen.
“I’m not going anywhere.” And then he leans closer to me, one hand braced underneath my leg so I don’t fall, the other gripping the porcelain sink behind me. He pulls my panties to the side. I didn’t notice him unzipping his pants—not until his erection slowly （so, so slowly） eases into me.
I gasp, my eyes almost rolling back in my head. I clutch onto his biceps while he begins to thrust deep inside of me. I am so full of Loren Hale, in a public bathroom, where his needs match mine. And he’s feeding into them.
For us.
“Open your eyes,” he murmurs, his breath shallow as he rocks into me. “Lil.”
I didn’t realize they were closed. I meet his gaze, and I nearly lose it at the way he’s looking at me. Lo kisses me deeply while I struggle to hold onto him without coming right there. His parted lips brush my forehead while he quickens his pace, while the intensity in his gaze matches the one in our bodies. My nerves light on fire, and with one last thrust, we both come together.
I breathe heavily while I descend off this giant cliff of bliss.
“I love you,” he whispers, his mouth near my ear.
My lips rise into a small smile. “I love you too.” Everything right then felt too good for words. And as he stays inside of me a little too long, I wonder if it can happen again.
Don’t go there, Lily.
A strangled sound latches in my throat. Like a dying hyena. What the hell was that? I think it’s my body wanting something it can’t have and being angry at my brain.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Lo says. “Lil.” He pulls out of me and lifts up his boxer-briefs and jeans around his waist quickly. Then he holds me entirely, his hand cupping my face.
I shut my eyes. You don’t want anymore. You don’t want anymore. You’re done. I try to repeat the mantra, but I already crave that climax again, one of equal intensity. The horrible thing: I know it won’t match it. I know that the second time won’t beat the first, so I’ll keep wanting to try again and again to reach what I just had.