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I take a deep, steadying breath, filling my lungs to their maximum capacity before releasing it as a slow, steady stream. The action calms me enough to work through the “what ifs.” Rafael and I are adults, and what webothengaged in was completely consensual. I do not bear the weight of every decision for every person potentially involved in this scenario. People sleep around in sports all the time, and while it might be broadcast on the news for a week, everyone eventually moves onto the next big thing. And even though I’d thrown a fit about having a babysitter in the beginning, I realise that’s not the case at all. I was looking for problems where there weren’t any because I was afraid of change. I recognise that now and can appreciate how much my dad has done to make my dreams a reality.
That clear strand always takes the brunt of the weight off once I’ve managed to work through it, the ache in my chest nearly gone, with mere remnants of smaller, more manageable emotions left behind.
“Elise,” Rafa murmurs.
“Mhmm?” I ask, unable to speak as a lump forms in my throat and begins slowly drifting to settle in the pit of my stomach. He’s about to tell me to go back to my room, where I’ll be alone and reminded of the fact that as much as I know this can’t happen again,I really want it to.
“I don’t—” he starts, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I can pretend that never happened.”
My throat constricts, and I remain silent, waiting for him to fill it with his rejection or to tell me it was a mistake. ThatIwas a mistake.
“So I think we need clear boundaries for how we go about this,” he says.
My mind is reeling, unable to dissect what he’s saying, so I turn over on my side, assessing him. His expression is hopeful as he turns his head to meet my gaze, tilting his chin.
“You mean, you want to keep seeing each other?” I ask, and my ears burn with how needy that sounded.
“If you—” he averts his eyes, “if you want to.”
The breath gets lodged in my lungs, and I’m unable to answer with words, so I just nod, awkwardly, feeling completely pathetic.
What is going on between us?
As of a few weeks ago, we could barely stand to be around each other, and now I feel so drawn to him I’m willing to lie to my friends to have time with him.It’s just the sex, Elise. He’s got a great dick.It’s not often that I lie, not to friends and certainly not to myself, but I recognise that thought for what it is.
Maybe it’s the fact that his grumpy, shit-ass attitude matches mine, or maybe it’s that he has something so broken within him that my mind and soul recognise. I’m not sure yet, but I have a feeling I’m on my way to find out.
When I still haven’t managed to answer, he squeezes my hand, his dark eyes boring into me as if digging into my mind to search through the files in my brain, searching for an answer.
I swallow audibly, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I want to.”
He cups the nape of his neck, then scratches uncomfortably.
“Okay, good, well, what boundaries are important to you?” he asks.
“We can’t tell anyone,” I immediately blurt out without any thought as to how that might make him feel. Though I’m sure he’s probably relieved, and the moment he breathes out a loud sigh and drops his hand on the bed, rolling onto his back again, I know I was right.
“Agreed. This is only sex, companionship without all the extra, time-consuming shit like dates,” he huffs out.
My mind starts to settle a bit.Good,we’re on the same page then.
“Sounds perfect,” I say. “If this starts becoming inconvenient for either of us, we stop,” I add.
“Okay. And we need code names or something.”
My lips twitch, brows raising. “Code names?” I ask, my tone teasing. “Are we Spy Kids or something?”
“The things I’m planning to do to you are far from child-friendly, though parental advisory may be advised,” he says with a deep chuckle that vibrates through my core.
I smack his bicep, rolling onto my back, in desperate need of a reprieve from his handsome face. He’s too distracting to look at. “What are these code names for?”
“You live with your best friends—they’re a bunch of nosy, oestrogen-driven women. We can’t have them finding out because I text you to meet up and your phone is in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“No wonder you’re single. Who the fuck wants to be with a testosterone warrior who thinks women are all looking for gossip? Jesus Christ,” I grumble.
“Then it’s a good thing all you want is my dick,” he says, and thankfully, he’s right. Some of the strange, awkward haze from earlier has lifted, and I think I’m realising I’m just bloody exhausted.
“Yep, good thing. So, nicknames.”