We're friends.
We're only ever going to be friends.
I need to act like this is normal. Like we're two adults talking about sex toys like adults do. "I thought guys were bothered by—" I can say the word. "Vibrators."
"In your vast experience?"
"Yeah." Okay, so I've never exactly had a guy over here. I've never had a guy's hands below my waist. Or mine below his. But I listen in class, at work, at the shop. I've heard guys talk about sex toys like they were only for desperate women.
"It's a tool. That's it."
"And that doesn't threaten you?"
"No."
"You're that... confident?"
He gives me a long once over. His eyes settle on mine. "We're not having his conversation."
"You brought it up."
"Even so."
There's something in his eyes.
An awkwardness I don't recognize.
Because he sees me as a sister?
Or because he's desperate to use a vibrator on me?
It takes the entire morning to unpack my stuff. The room—my room—has a desk but it's lacking most of the other furniture I need.
We get lunch at the taco place down the street, make plans to get furniture tomorrow, argue about who is going to stay in the master bedroom until we get my bed. I insist he stays in his room. He insists the couch.
Eventually, I break and agree. And it has nothing to do with how much I want to be in his bed, wrapped up in sheets that smell of him.
It's not like that's the only reason why I relent.
Not at all.
God, this really is amazing.
I fall back onto Brendon's four poster bed.
I sink into the smooth sheets.
They smell like him. Like his earthy soap and like something distinctly Brendon.
God, they smell good.
I let my eyelids flutter closed and let my head fill with dirty thoughts.
Him next to me.
Pulling my t-shirt over my head.
Unhooking my bra.
Sliding it off my shoulders.
Dragging his fingertips up my torso, between my breasts, around my nipples.
Pressing his lips to mine.
He thinks I'm sweet. Innocent.
Everyone does.
And I am.
I'm a virgin, sure. But I'm not naïve.
I know what I want.
It's him.
A knock on the door pulls me back to the moment.
"I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay alone?" Brendon asks from the hallway.
He explained it at lunch—he and Emma have a strict knock, enter only if invited policy.
"Yeah. I have to get started on my summer reading."
"Call me if you need anything."
"I'll be fine."
"Promise."
"Brendon—"
"If you'll be fine, it will be an easy promise to keep."
It's a compelling argument. Even if I have no intentions of calling him. No matter what I need. "Okay. I promise."
"See you tonight."
"You too."
His footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs.
I can just barely hear the front door shut.
Emma is at work—she works at a department store at the promenade.
I'm alone here.
I've never been alone here before.
It's the perfect chance to work out some of this tension.
But not yet.
It sounds stupid, but I can't touch myself in the middle of the afternoon. That's so... intentional.
I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as anything else.
Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow.
Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my new roommate slash guardian, but hey—
I do have dirty books on here.
I'm capable of fun. Of sexy. Of bad.
Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas.
I toss my sleep shorts on the bed.
Set my Kindle on the dresser.
Right next to the faded black sketchbook.
Wait.
That's Brendon's sketchbook.
It's right there.
I've never seen it by itself.
In his hands? Yeah.
On his lap? Absolutely.
Nestled under his arm? Of course.
It never leaves his sight.
And he snaps it fast whenever I get close.
This is it.
All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head of his.
His secrets.
None of my business.
I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.
This is his.
It's private.
Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.
I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.
When he's alone, period.
Go
d, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.
This is wrong. What if it was your journal?
I force myself to set the book down.
To plant on the bed.
To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor.
I shouldn't look.
But this is the only chance I'm going to get.
If I don't look, I'll never get inside his head.
I'll never know what he's thinking.
I'll never know if he's thinking about me.
I place the book in my lap and pry it open. The first few pages are familiar tattoo mockups—Brendon always shows off his finished work. Or maybe I check the shop's Facebook religiously. Either way.
Then there are figure drawings. More tattoo mockups. A fierce dragon defending a castle. A giant octopus destroying a sea monster. A topless mermaid sunning on a rock.
A librarian pin up.
Only...
No.
She looks like me. Same champagne blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty pink cardigan. Same thick blue glasses. These aren't exactly standard frames.
And she's wearing a Mockingjay pin.
Exactly like the one attached to my backpack.
That's nothing. Lots of people like The Hunger Games. Even Brendon.
There's no way he's looking at me like this.
My heartbeat picks up.
My breath flees my body at an alarming rate.
I shouldn't turn the page, but I can't stop myself.
It's that same pin up, only her cardigan is unbuttoned. Her breasts are exposed.
In the next picture, she's lying on her back, her arms over her head, her cardigan binding her wrists.
The next.
That's me. Splayed out over this bed. Naked. Bound to the railing.
I turn the page.
Fuck.
I suck a deep breath between my teeth.
I press my thighs together.
I'm on my knees, resting on my heels, looking up.
Naked.
Waiting.
Hungry.
He wants me.
Brendon wants me.
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