Only in lingerie.
We…
I…
Oh my God.
“Skye?” Forest’s footsteps move closer. He knocks on the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah…” I read it again. And again. And again.
The offer stays the same.
Five. Thousand. Dollars.
That’s just…
It’s not…
Oh my God.
“You decent?” He taps the door. “I’m coming in.”
“Yeah… I…”
Music floods the room. God, there’s something so familiar about the singer’s voice. I didn’t like it at first, but now it’s home.
“You don’t look okay.” His voice is steady. Caring.
“I am. Just…”
“Hungover?”
“No.” A little. “That’s not…” I force myself to look away from the phone. To look to him.
He’s wearing pajama bottoms. Only pajama bottoms.
His torso is bare.
I can see every line of the broken heart tattooed to his chest.
The lilies spreading over his shoulder.
The Latin quote running down his ribs.
ex nihilo nihil fit
Nothing comes from nothing.
The perfect anti-nihilism quote.
Pure Forest.
And the lyrics on his hip.
Something about trusting someone enough to love them. Trusting them when they say you’re good for them. About loving them enough to risk breaking their heart.
I can only see the top line. The top half a line. His pants cover the rest.
Mmm.
I want to trace it. Touch him. Take in every single letter.
“What?” His voice is utterly matter-of-fact. “I have something on my face?”
“No… I…” Must stop staring. Must bring my gaze to his eyes. Must look at something besides the ink on his hip.
“You…”
“That tattoo.”
“Which one?”
The one driving me out of my fucking mind. The one begging me to rip his pants off. The one positioned so I have to think about his cock. “The…” I point to his hip. “It’s this guy, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would you… he’s such an asshole.”
He chuckles. Motions to the kitchen come on. “It’s from the next album.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll point it out when we get to that song.”
It’s the next thing on his playlist. Of course. He’s so… I can’t even laugh about it. I’m too transfixed by the ink.
He told me when he got it.
I’ve seen it a few times. The few times I convinced him to go swimming. (Forest isn’t a beach guy).
But this is…
“Come on.” His fingers wrap around my wrist. “I made you a matcha.”
“Matcha…”
“You sure you’re not hungover?”
“Yeah… I…”
He pulls me closer.
My body presses against his. God, he’s so hard and warm and right.
It’s a split second. He steps backward, pulling me with him.
My eyes go to the ground. Then his ass.
His pants are loose. I can’t get a good view.
A tragedy if there ever was one.
But, uh…
He leads me all the way to the kitchen island. Motions to the stool. Sit.
“I’m okay.” I force my gaze to the kitchen. It’s the same as always. Clean (he’s a neat freak). Shiny. New.
A carafe full of java in the coffee maker.
Scrambled eggs—with veggies, of course—warming on the stove.
A tin of matcha sitting next to a whisk.
“Sit.” He turns, grabs the mug of matcha, holds it up. “Or no matcha latte.”
“With almond milk?”
He raises a brow who do you think I am?
Mmm. Well, I am a little woozy. I want to sit anyway. It’s not because he’s issuing orders.
“Sit,” he says again.
My legs obey his command immediately. My heartbeat kicks up. My veins buzz with desire.
He’s just so… intense. And sexy.
It’s not news.
But after being so close—
I can’t deny the facts anymore.
I can’t breathe in his presence anymore.
I can’t think anything but take off clothes now please anymore.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” He sets the matcha in front of me.
I take a greedy sip. Let out a low, deep moan. Mmm. He’s way too good at this.
“That sounds more like you.” He chuckles.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He turns to the stove. Scoops eggs onto two plates. Adds extra green onions to mine.
My favorite.
He always fixes them just how I like them. I don’t even have to ask.
He brings our plates—and the sriracha—to the counter. “Eat.”
“I…”
“Can you not fight me one time?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He chuckles you’re ridiculous then he hands me a fork. He just knows I’m going to eat.
I mean, I am. He’s a great cook. And I’m starving.
And, God, there are so many green onions. And tomatoes. Soft, juicy rich tomatoes.
Mmm.
I nearly inhale the food. It deserves better, but I’m starving.
And this is easy. Comfortable.
Breakfast with Forest.
The air-conditioning and music mixing into a familiar soundtrack.
No talk about lingerie or pictures or pretending.
He finishes his eggs. Stands. Collects our dishes. “I found you a video.”
“A—” Oh. It hits me at once. “When?”
“Last night.”
“You were looking at porn on the couch?” It’s already back to normal. His extra pillow and comforter are already in the closet.
“For academic reasons.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You scared of cum on the couch?”
My jaw drops.
He laughs. “I didn’t.”
“You…” Since when does he talk about cum? With me?
Something is different with him too.
Seeing Mackenzie.
Or seeing Diego.
Or touching me.
God, I want it to be that.
For now—
Forest fucked himself on that couch.
It’s a beautiful mental image.