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I can hear him shuffling about and then a towel is on me as he scrubs away the leftover cum on my stomach. I search for him in the darkness but give up when the door to the bathroom closes with an audible thud and the lock snaps into place.

So much for cuddle time and kisses after.

Sleepiness does clutch at me, though. I yank his covers back over my body, snuggling into his pillow instead. The shower cuts on and I smile when I hear him grunting moments later.

He’s jerking off in the shower.

Because of me.

BecauseIturn him on.

Jude is certainly wrong for me in every way that counts. He’s definitely in that toxic territory I love so much. There’s also something innocent and kind lurking inside him. I’m curious to know all the parts of what make him who he is.

I fall asleep with visions of him stroking his big, beautiful cock.

This better have not all been a torturous dream.

Jude

I’m addicted to Tate.

Fucking addicted.

And I have no idea how to stop it.

Knowing he’s been sleeping away the day in my bed, after sleeping with me last night and then letting me get him off this morning, has been trying for my patience. I so badly want to crawl back into bed with him and do so much more.

My soapy hand in the shower this morning paled in comparison to the way his mouth felt in the kitchen last night.

I let out a frustrated sigh and pick up the pie plate Violet brought along with my lunch. She asked if Tate was okay since he never made it down for breakfast or lunch. I told her he was having a much-needed day to sleep in and I’d make sure he was fed when he woke up.

Eventually, he will wake up and I’ll be forced to look him in the eye.

Will he regret what we did last night and this morning?

I hate the way my stomach drops at the thought of him feeling badly about what we did. That would fucking gut me.

Why, though?

Because you like him, dumbass.

Really, really like him.

I stab at the pecan pie on my plate as though it’s the reason for my frustration and not my complicated, twisted-up mind. The pie, however, is sweet and decadent, a far cry from my bitter and sour self.

When my phone buzzes, I polish off the rest of my pie and then trade the plate for my phone, eager to take my mind off my exploding feelings for Tate. As soon as I read the name of who texted me, I groan in exasperation.

Baker: Seriously. My birthday is coming up. If you don’t want me going to your house, let’s go do something. I’ll bring the wifey and you can bring a date. I know your sexy ass is seeing someone.

I cringe at the thought of Baker knowing exactly what I’ve been up to in the romance department. My old football buddy would give me so much shit if he knew I was obsessing over a goddamn guy. He wasn’t exactly quiet about his homophobic comments in the past.

Asshole.

Me: Still busy. I’ll also be busy for the foreseeable future. Have a nice birthday and life. Lose my number.

There. Maybe the prick will leave me alone.

Baker: You’re such a shithead. More than I remember. Don’t worry, princess. You can’t push me away with a few pissy words. We go waaaaaaay back, man.