Page 12 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)

Fletcher Donovan is a Slut

Behraz

I might be dying.

Last night, Fletcher Donovan, God amongst men, saw me in the tiniest bathing suit I own. And I’m pretty sure I saw…all of him. Pecs, abs, and an impossible-to-ignore outline of a massive dick. Which is impressive considering water typically causes shrinkage. My mind. It’s permanently in the gutter.

It doesn’t help that he’s always around, being kind and caring and blushing up a storm. On top of that, the air conditioning in the apartment is going haywire. My bedroom is no colder than a sauna, and sitting in the living area requires multiple layers.

I throw on grey sweats and an old tee. It’s from a small gift shop in Montreal from a few years ago. Indi took me and her sister on a quick girls’ trip when Landon was a client and got us club seating for a game. One of the best weekends of my life. I peek out the door.

Oh, good. He’s not here. Now I can finally study. He’s so distracting. Really, really distracting. And how am I supposed to pay attention when he’s everywhere, walking around the apartment with his handsome face stuck in a book?

Stack of flashcards in hand, I tuck the exam prep manual under an arm and wrap myself in the one salmon pink blanket I managed to finish while in my finger-knitting phase.

The blanket burrito falls apart when I sit on the couch and extend my legs. I adjust it under my ass and pull it over my shoulders, but lose grip of the flashcards. They explode across the space like confetti.

“Perfect. Well done, Bea,” I deadpan. I’ll collect those later.

First, a review. I stare at the Comprehensive Bar Exam Preparation Manual.

So much for studying. The cover of this cursed exam prep manual is the exact same color as Fletcher’s perfect, rich, thick, auburn hair.

Hair that I want to run my hands through.

Give a good yank while I ride his face. Fuck, I am way too horny to be studying right now.

Maybe I should go rub one out. No. What if he comes home and catches you?

Bad idea. I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes.

Alright, let’s try this Pomodoro method business.

Taking a deep breath, I start to read, but the words don’t make any sense. Focus, Bea, focus. Focus, focus, focus. The door lock clicks. My roommate steps through, kicking off his shoes before walking to the kitchen and removing his over-the-ear headphones. I gape at his outfit.

Fletcher Donovan is a slut. A slutty slut slut-slut.

A cropped Ottawa Regents shirt with the sleeves cut off exposes his bulky arms and toned abs.

Black shorts with a very short inseam cut across his muscular thighs and highlight the slutty trail of dark red hair traveling downward from his belly button.

He turns to grab a glass from the cupboard, round, juicy ass on display. Jeez, did he go out like that?

Fletcher fills the glass and rounds the counter, bringing it to his lips before noticing my presence. He stills, pushing a hand through his mussed hair and turning a particular shade of crimson that has me crossing my legs and curling my toes. Unbelievable. The man makes me wet because he blushes.

“Hey,” he says through a breath.

“Hey,” I reply, moving my eyes across the open page. The words make even less sense now.

“Your book’s upside down.”

Hey, Earth? How about you swallow me whole?

I hide the flush flaming my face with the manual. “That’s ‘cause I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Behraz.”

Another exhale hisses through my teeth. “I really suck at studying. I took a practice exam this morning. It was worse than my last attempt.”

“Shit.”

“I’m trying all the different tips and methods to stay organized, but” —my hands show the mess of flashcards scattered across the sofa, coffee table, and floor— “surprise, surprise. I’m failing spectacularly.”

Fletcher walks over and sits on the cushion by my feet. “Can I help?”

You can help by not being a little slut and wearing slutty little outfits around the apartment. That’d be a great help.

“You’re already helping me so much. I’m living here rent-free; you chauffeur me around to work and therapy.”

“So?”

“I don’t know.” I tilt my head back to rest on the arm of the couch. “I’m starting to think I’m unhelpable.”

“Also not true.” He takes a generous gulp of water, halving the amount in the glass. Watching his throat wobble makes my thighs clench tighter. “My little sister, Harper.” Fletcher burps quietly through a fist. “Excuse me. She has ADHD, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she got diagnosed right after she graduated from uni.” His glass empties with the next gulp.

He sets it down and wipes a line of sweat from his freckled forehead.

“She’s the smartest of us, and we didn’t really understand how she got through all the years of studying without any trouble, but she struggled.

We didn’t see it, because she was working hard. ”

“Yeah.”

“But I guess working was a completely different structure from school. And moving across the country was a big change. She got support through her job. I spent that summer with her, doing some research and figuring out what worked.”

“You’d do that for me, too?”

“Whatever I can.” His shoulders tense and drop. “I’m pretty useless otherwise.”

My heart rips in two. Is that what he thinks of himself? “You’re joking, right?” I sit up and scoot forward until my feet touch the floor. “You’re literally saving my ass on the daily.”

“Pretty sure you saved my ass, too.”

“After I nearly killed you.”

“ Ha , true.” His laugh. What a sound. One of his thumbs picks at his lips. “Maybe we’re saving each other, Behraz.”

It’s freezing in here, and I’m melting.

“Maybe.”

“Are…are we still on for wallowing and skincare tonight?” He rises from the couch, bringing his crotch to my line of sight.

Stop looking, Bea. You’re a creep. But his dick is unavoidable.

How it’s being withheld in those tiny shorts is a true mystery.

“Because believe it or not, I’m getting old.

I think I saw a wrinkle in the mirror this morning. ”

I deny him with a roll of my eyes. “You do not have wrinkles, and you’re not old.”

“I’m almost thirty,” he argues.

“So am I.”

“No way.”

“I am. I’m twenty-seven.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

I know. Because I’m a stalker who knows how to use the internet, and you’re the public figure I’ve had an enormous crush on for about six years.

“Alright, old man,” I tease. “Skincare tonight. I’ll prep the mud mask.”

I’ll never get tired of his sweet smiles. They’re so rare and subtle. Like they’re just for me.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Ambient electric guitars play over the speaker in the living room as we recline on the couch. Cool slices of cucumber cover our eyes.

“I cand murr by fayshe,” Fletcher mumbles.

I can’t either but reply through tight lips. “Dash how you know ish working.”

He exhales through his nose. “Hurr mush lurrngurr?”

The timer goes off, and I tap his arm, signaling we can go wash our faces.

A few minutes later, we emerge from our respective washrooms.

“I think it worked.” Fletcher pats his face. “I look younger already.”

“Has anyone ever called you dramatic?”

A guilty smile stretches his clean skin. “Never.”

“Also, that was only skincare, step one.” I pat a spot on the sofa cushion next to me.

“Tilt your head back.” He obeys. I do like a man who listens.

“Step two is toner. Homemade rosewater is my favorite.” The small spray bottle swishes with the liquid inside.

“Eyes closed.” I spritz five times and do the same to myself. “Now we let it dry.”

“This is so involved,” he concludes. “I had no idea.”

“Last is a moisturizer. Extra thick since it’s gonna be overnight, mixed in with a nighttime serum for hydration.” I offer the heavy cream and a few drops of serum in his palm, demonstrating how to mix and apply it.

“Did I do it right?” Fletcher tilts his head left and right to show me. I nod. “Cool.”

I mirror the action. “How about me?”

“Just” —he taps a spot on his cheek— “here, can I?”

My throat tightens. “Yeah.”

I almost lose control of my breathing when his thumb swipes over the line of my jaw to rub a missed spot of moisturizer in.

His phone interrupts with a buzz, breaking the tension. “Alright, food’s here.” Fletcher gets up and moves toward the front door.

“What did you order?”

“Poutine. Is that okay?”

I cross my legs beneath me on the couch, motioning for him to hand it over. “Hell, yes. It’s my favorite.”

He pulls his lips into his mouth while removing the baskets of cheesy, gravy-covered fries from their foil sleeves. “I know.”

My eyebrows lift. “You do?”

“I noticed you eating it that day when I caught you crying. And half a dozen other times when you were upset. I figured it was a comfort food.”

“It is.” I pause to thank him with a smile. “Thanks, Fletcher.”

“Anytime.” He passes me a fork and a napkin before settling himself into the couch, too. “So, when do we wallow?”

“You know, it’s weird,” I say between gooey, delicious bites. “I don’t really feel like wallowing anymore.”