Sucker Punched (20 page)

Flipping the bathroom light off, I lean against the doorjamb. “Why don’t we ever hang out in the living room?”

It occurred to me while I was getting ready for bed that we spend 95% of our time together in my room. In any other scenario, I’d be thrilled to spend that much time in bed with Blake, but it’s kind of weird when we’re using that bed for non-bed-related activities.

Like eating take-out while we binge-watch Netflix.

Now I’ve never had a roommate that I actually hung out with before, but shouldn’t we stick to the “common areas” of the house? Inviting him into my personal space seems. . .risky. We’re blurring the lines. 

Hell, who am I kidding? Blake can’t even see the lines anymore, not if tonight’s bath was any indication. I’m either going to have to draw new ones, or he needs to get some damn glasses.

Blake lifts his shoulders in a lazy shrug as he presses “play” on the remote. He looks completely at ease lying on my bed, propped up with a couple pillows. “The couch isn’t as comfortable,” he says. “Plus I like being able to say I spent the night in bed with you.”

I laugh and push myself off the doorframe. “Who would you even say that to?” The only people we have in common are Declan and Savannah, and I seriously doubt he’s bragging to them about any of this.

“The guys at work. They’re all jealous that I get to come home to a bombshell like you. I like to rub it in their faces that we spend
hours
in bed together every night.”

My mouth flops open as I freeze next to the bed, one knee on the mattress. His grin makes me lose it, and I lunge across the bed, smacking his arm.

“What the hell?” I shout, trying not to let his grin infect me. But of course, his stupid grin is contagious, and pretty soon my lips are curling of their own volition. 

Blake laughs at my pathetic attempt to keep from smiling. “You don’t even know them. Why do you care?”

I roll my eyes, feeling heat flood my face. “Whatever.” Settling back onto the other side of the bed, I frown. Crumbs are sticking to my thighs like rough, little magnets. “Dude, you got crumbs all over the bed!”

“Sorry, Bert.”

I stop trying to swipe them off and glare at Blake. I take umbrage with that. Bert’s the boring one.
And
he’s got a unibrow. “Just help me shake the blanket off, Ernie.”

We stand and shake the comforter out, sending crumbs flying to the floor. Once I’m satisfied, we lay it back over the bed and I peel my corner down, sliding under the covers. 

Blake does the same.

I pause, wondering what the hell he’s doing.

“What?” He frowns when he finally notices my expression. “It’s cold.”

“Uh-huh.” I pull the covers up, suddenly hyperaware that we’re in bed together.

Up until now, he’s remained on top of the blanket at all times, even if I wasn’t. It was like an unspoken rule. A
literal
dividing line between us.

Now there’s no divider. Nothing to keep things. . .contained.

“Relax, Duchess.”

I turn my head at the sound of his voice. What did he just say? I was too busy freaking out to listen.

“For the millionth time, I’m not going to try anything. I just. . .” He sighs. “After the night we’ve had, I need to be close to you.”

He says it reluctantly, almost painfully, as if he’s admitting some disturbing secret he’s tried to keep hidden. Then his jaw clenches and the rest of it pours out of him in a heated rush, like he’s mad at
me
for coaxing this confession out of him.

“I don’t fucking understand it, I just know that I physically
cannot
get out of this goddamn bed and leave you right now, so relax. I’m not trying to start something.”

My eyes grow wide at his impassioned tirade. “Okay.”

“Okay.” It looks like he’s trying not to act surprised that I caved so easily.

I scoot toward him, resting my head on his chest as my arm wraps around his middle, hugging him. “Thank you.”

Blake tenses. “For what?” 

He seems to be as uncomfortable with our proximity as I was thirty seconds ago. I have no idea why, but this makes me smile into his shirt. 

“For having my back tonight. For being a good friend.”

He relaxes against me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Believe me, Duchess, if you knew what I was thinking right now, you wouldn’t be calling me a friend.” His fingers trace the skin on my arm and I fight off the shiver trying to roll through me.

I’m tempted to ask him what he’s thinking, but that would open up a whole can of worms neither of us seem ready to deal with. So I’ll make like Elsa and let it go.

“How’s your hand?” I roll over, getting a better look.

I take it in mine, gingerly lifting it up to inspect it. His knuckles are still red, the skin over the bones raw and angry-looking. At least he didn’t break anything.

He flexes his fingers, stretching out the tendons before clearing his throat. “Fine.” It doesn’t escape me that his voice comes out a little deeper, a little rougher, as my fingers trace the callused skin on his palm.

I linger on a scar just under his thumb, grazing the smooth, pale line. “Have you been in a lot of fights?” He said he wasn’t a violent person, but he sure knew how to handle himself earlier.

“Not since high school.”

“What happened?”

Blake laughs, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “What’s with the twenty questions? I feel like I’m being interrogated by the police.”

“
Have
you been interrogated by the police?” When he shoots me a look of consternation, I sigh. “What? I’m curious. Your past is like a giant question mark to me.”

He shrugs, focusing back on the forgotten TV show. “There’s nothing worth knowing.”

I don’t believe that. Not for a second. 

Sitting up, I turn and face him so I’m blocking the TV. “How ’bout this. For every question you answer, I’ll answer one of yours.”

“About your past, or about anything?”

“Anything.” The glint in his eyes warns me I’ll come to regret that decision.

He climbs off the bed. “You got yourself a deal, Duchess. But if we’re gonna do this, I need a drink or ten.” He pauses in the doorway to my room, his hand on the frame. “You want one?”

My eyes narrow at his suddenly chipper mood. “You tell me. What kind of questions are you going to ask?”

Blake smiles wickedly, then taps twice on the doorframe. “You want one.”

I come back to Macy’s room a few minutes later carrying a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. She’s sitting on her bed, legs crossed, with her game face on.

Flicking her eyes to the Patrón in my hand, she cocks a brow. “So it’s gonna be that kind of night, huh?”

“Yep.” 

I hand her the glasses and uncork the tequila, then pour us shots. After I set the bottle on her nightstand, I take a glass from her. We clink the brims together and wordlessly drink.

She grimaces as she swallows. It’s cute.

“You want another?”

She holds out her shot glass. “Please.”

After we repeat the process, I set everything aside and climb onto her bed, mirroring her position. It gives me a nice view of her crotch in those tiny shorts, so I don’t even mind sitting here like some kind of hippie douche.

Macy clears her throat. “I’ll go first. Why’d you get into fights in high school?”

Why is she so stuck on that?

Trying not to scowl, I release a harsh breath. “I was a mouthy little shit who didn’t know when to stop talking.” It’s true, more or less.

The look that immediately crosses her face is a good indication that “less” won’t cut it.

I roll my eyes and look off to the side. I’m suddenly finding that this face-to-face bullshit is stupid. “When Declan and I moved here, I had a hard time adjusting, and fifteen-year-old me was a moody little prick. I had a problem with authority and pretty much everyone else, so it’s no surprise that I made more enemies than friends. Satisfied?”

“For now. Your turn.”

Just anticipating her reaction to my question has me grinning like a madman. “How often do you watch our sex tape?”

Her mouth opens in shock, her eyes widening before quickly looking away. It’s fucking perfect. “A lot,” she finally mumbles.

“How much is a lot?” The words are out of my mouth before I even have time to think them.

A smug smile stretches her lips. “Nope, it’s my turn.”

“Like hell it is. You’ve just established that vague won’t cut it tonight, and ‘a lot’ is super vague. I’m gonna need more details, Duchess. You know, for science.”

She rolls her eyes. “Almost every day, all right?”

Fuck, that
is
a lot. My eyes glaze over as I imagine all the dirty things she does while watching it. . .

“Where’d you guys move from?”

“Philly.” I reach for the tequila and pour another shot. “Do you touch yourself while you watch it?”

I already know she does. Why else would she watch it that much if she’s not using it to get off? I just want to hear her admit it. And I want to see my favorite shade of pink color her face, which is exactly what happens as I lift the glass to my lips. 

Blotchy never looked so good. Or so pissed.

I laugh, and Macy surprises me by snatching the shot glass from my hand. She downs it in one gulp, wincing as it rolls down her throat. “Yes.”

And with that one word, she kills me dead. My obituary’s going to read:
Blake Whitmore, 25, died from a permanent erection that resulted in massive blood loss to the brain.

I groan, my imagination running wild as she asks, “Why’d you move?”

What do you know? My boner’s gone.

This is officially not fun anymore. 

My jaw clenches. “Because the state of Pennsylvania didn’t think we were old enough to fend for ourselves.”

At her confused look, I pour myself another drink and then slam it back. “My mom died. And my dad wasn’t around, so. . .”

“So you moved in with your grandparents,” she says slowly, putting two and two together. Her face crumples, morphing into the pitiful look I knew would come. It’s how everybody reacts when they learn I lost my mom at fifteen, and partly why I don’t like to talk about it.

But mostly it’s because it still fucking hurts, even after all this time.

“Blake, I’m so sorry. You know, we don’t have to play this game. It’s dumb.”

Fuck that. I answered her question. I earned this next one. “How do you touch yourself while you watch it?” Her eyes plead with me to stop playing, but I just shrug. “What? It’s my turn.”

She sighs, looking down to her lap. “With my vibrator.”

Nope, not going to cut it. “
Details
, Duchess.”

She hangs her head, muttering, “This was such a stupid idea,” before rubbing her hands over her face. Then she squares her shoulders back and looks me straight in the eye. “I start out on a low setting and place the vibrator on my clit to get myself started. Really gets the juices flowing, if you know what I mean.” She winks at me, and my cock jerks in my jeans like she just reached out and touched it. 

“Once I’m nice and wet, I slide the vibrator inside me and slowly start fucking myself with it. If I’m especially turned on, I’ll play with my nipples. Flick them. Tease them. Get ’em nice and hard. Then I turn the setting up and really go to town. One hand rubs my clit while the other works the vibrator in and out. . .” Macy swallows and licks her lips, her cheeks flush, her breathing slightly shallow. “I always imagine that you’re the one fucking me and it’s your cock I’m coming all over.” 

All the blood in my head rushes to the one in my pants so fast my vision turns spotty and I get dizzy, even though I’m sitting. I almost feel high. 

She leans forward and I instinctively mirror her movements until our lips are almost touching. If she’s half as turned on as I am, then we’re in real trouble. 

Normally I try to ignore the fact that Macy’s the best sex I’ve ever had. It’s depressing to think that I’ll never get it again. Plus it makes me. . .uncomfortable.

Before Macy, I never had a favorite. I had a collection of good times I’d think about when I jacked off. I never focused on one in particular, just kind of rotated through them when I didn’t feel like watching porn.

But now?

Macy’s all I think about. When I jack off, when I have sex, when I’m at work—shit, even when I sleep.

It’s scary as fuck, and I’m not ready to analyze it yet. It’s like a tumor I know is there, but I don’t acknowledge it, because acknowledging it will make it grow. That’s not how it works in real life, but in my mind, that’s the deal.

So I ignore it. I tell myself I’m just dwelling on Macy because she’s the first girl friend I’ve ever had, and that’s no reason to turn her into my
girlfriend
.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck her again. I know I’ve made her promises about keeping things in the friend zone, but I’m only human, and if she wants this—even if it’s just for a night—then I won’t be able to keep us from crossing that line and ruining all we’ve built. I want her too much. 

And if I’m brutally honest with myself, maybe this is what I wanted all along. I knew lines would get crossed if she moved in, and I wanted her to do it anyway. I know I’m no good for her, I know she deserves better, and I know damn well this won’t end with us riding off into the sunset. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment or maybe I’m just a selfish asshole, but I want it all the same.