Page 17 of Don’t Say You’re Sorry (Hawthorne University #2)

ADAM

“ D ude, I suck at this game and I’m kicking your ass,” Xavi says, his knees bent, legs spread, his hands holding his controller between them.

I blink, focusing my attention back on the basketball game we’re playing on the PlayStation. I keep zoning out, thinking about Easton.

Where is he?

Xavi and Frankie got home a few hours ago. Frankie disappeared up to her room, and Xavi asked if I wanted to hang out. I said yes, grateful for the company. I’d been bored out of my ass all day while they were all at school.

Nate came back from practice a couple of hours ago—alone—and found me and Xavi in the den. He narrowed his eyes at us, and Xavi grinned. Nate stuck his tongue down Xavi’s throat before flopping onto his other side, his hand resting on Xavi’s thigh.

When I casually asked where Easton was, all Nate said was that he and Carter were going out. Out where? And why? I didn’t ask, though I’ve been dying to ever since he sat down and started watching us play.

Over Xavi’s head, Nate glances between me and the TV, then tips his chin at my players, who are once again doing nothing on the screen. “See your players? That’s pretty much how Easton played at practice today.”

I frown.

“What? Why?” Xavi asks, his brows dipped in concentration as he scores yet again.

“I don’t know. He couldn’t focus.” Nate shrugs. “Carter got on his ass for it, and Coach made them do suicides.”

My head snaps up at that, and I stare at the wall, thinking about hot dogs and first kisses and promises made. Promises Easton kept and I didn’t.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’m gonna be sleeping at your house and stealing all your food when we’re sixty. You’re gonna be sick of me.”

“Do you have beer?” I ask.

Xavi nods, eyes still locked on the game. “Yeah, it’s in the fridge. Help yourself,” he says, passing my controller to Nate.

“Do you guys want one?”

Nate shakes his head, and Xavi says, “No, thanks. I don’t drink. I’m a recovering addict.”

Nate watches me, waiting for my reaction, but I’m stumped on how to proceed. Should I not drink in front of him? He told me to help myself, but maybe he’s just being polite.

Widening my eyes at Nate, I silently beg him to help me out here. He says nothing, the asshole.

Snorting, Xavi says, “I don’t mind. Seriously. Help yourself.” He gestures to the door. “And get me a soda while you’re up, will you? Nate will have water.”

I nod and head for the kitchen, grabbing a beer, a can of Coke, and a bottle of water from the fridge. When I get back to the den, Nate’s winning, completely annihilating his boyfriend.

I pass them their drinks and sit, taking a swig of my beer before placing it on the end table next to me. When Nate scores again, Xavi snatches the controller from him and gives it back to me.

“This is why I don’t let you play with me,” he huffs.

Nate scoffs. “You let me play with you whenever I want,” he murmurs, trailing his hand up Xavi’s inner thigh.

Xavi smacks his hand away. “Stop. I’m trying to concentrate. I’m finally getting good.”

“No, you’re not. Adam’s just that bad.”

“Shut up.”

Laughing, I shake my head at them and try to focus on the game too. But when Nate drapes his arm around Xavi’s back and Xavi rests his head on his shoulder, my thoughts drift straight to Easton.

He and I used to play this game until our thumbs ached, sitting side by side on his bed, surrounded by piles of snacks and drinks. One night, after we started sleeping together, he pulled me in to sit between his legs, my back against his chest, his chin resting on my shoulder.

When he tilted his head and his breath grazed my ear, his lips brushing my lobe, I dropped the controllers and guided his hand down to my joggers. He slipped his hand inside, covered my mouth with the other, and jerked me until I came all over his knuckles.

I returned the favor on my knees, his fingers tangled in my hair as he fucked my throat.

“What do you think they’re doing?” I ask the boys, my knee bouncing as I turn to peek out the window overlooking the driveway.

“Getting food, knowing Easton,” Xavi answers.

As if on cue, my stomach clenches, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the half a bowl of Lucky Charms this morning.

Not because I forgot to eat, but because I’ve been too anxious to.

Being back in Hawthorne, in Easton’s house, surrounded by his things, his life, his friends, knowing I’ll see him again when he gets home…

it’s making me jittery. Nervous. Excited. Fucking terrified.

“What kind of food?” I ask.

“Chinese,” Xavi and Nate say at the same time.

“Easton loves Chinese food,” Xavi adds. “There’s this little place he likes not far from campus. He goes there at least once a week and comes home with one of everything.”

One of everything.

My heart kicks around in my chest. When Easton and I were fifteen, we had the house to ourselves for the night while our parents went out on a date.

I don’t remember where Axel was; probably at a party or on a date of his own.

They left us some cash to get a pizza, but Easton wanted Chinese food.

We couldn’t agree on what to get, so I threw my hands up and sarcastically suggested we get one of everything.

He shrugged and went upstairs to grab some more cash from his room.

That night, we sat on the rug in the living room with a ton of food and watched a movie.

From then on, every time we ordered Chinese food, we got one of everything.

We spent a shit load of money on it, but it was worth it to us.

Finally, I hear the front door opening and resist the urge to jump out of my seat and greet him like an abandoned puppy who missed its owner.

I finish my beer to stop myself from doing just that.

Easton appears in the open doorway wearing jeans and a tight black T-shirt, the muscles in his arms looking even more prominent as he looks between the three of us. His gaze lands on mine as he stalks into the room, rounding the sofa to stand behind us.

“You replacing me, Xav?” he jokes, reaching between me and Xavi to take the controller from my lap. “I thought this was our thing.”

I flinch slightly. Ouch . It used to be our thing.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Xavi shrugs. “I finally found someone I can beat.”

“You beat him?” Easton asks, cocking his head at the TV. “Adam’s great at this game.”

Xavi snorts. “No, he’s not.”

“I was a little distracted,” I mutter, eyeing Easton. Just like you were at practice today.

He drops the controller on the sofa. “Did you eat?”

“No.”

Rolling his eyes, he gestures for me to follow him. Frankie comes downstairs, and we all head to the kitchen where Carter’s unpacking the food they brought home. Sure enough, it’s Chinese food. And there’s one of everything.

Later, I ask Easton, “Where’s your car?”

We’re back in the den where he and Xavi are sitting on the sofa between me and Nate, controllers in hand as they play their game. Their thing , as Easton called it.

“I left it at campus,” Easton replies, not taking his eyes off the TV. “Can you give me a ride to class tomorrow?”

“Me?”

A little smile.

“Yes, you, Adam.”

There’s no reason he can’t get a lift with Nate or Frankie, considering they’re going to the same place he is, but if he wants me to take him, I’m not about to question it.

“What about Carter?”

“His car’s at the bar he took me to. He can find his own way there.”

Fine by me.

Xavi growls and chucks his controller down on his lap when Easton beats him again. That’s four in a row. Xavi hasn’t won against him once.

“I hate this game.”

“You loved it earlier,” Nate reminds him.

“That was when I was winning.”

Easton snickers. When he starts a new game, Xavi hands me the controller. With a feigned, overly dramatic yawn, he stands and stretches his arms, revealing a little strip of pale skin above his waistband. “Nate, take me to bed.”

Nate lowers Xavi’s arms, tugging his shirt down to hide his body from us before he guides him to the door. Xavi winks at me over his shoulder. Nate squeezes the back of his neck, forcing him to keep moving, and I don’t miss the little grin on Xavi’s face before he turns away. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Easton and I say back.

“So subtle,” Easton deadpans once they’re gone.

A laugh bubbles out of me as I rub my temples, trying to hide the pink stains on my cheeks.

“You want another beer?” he asks, standing and picking up the two empty bottles on the end table.

I raise a brow. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Smirking, Easton takes that as a yes and heads to the kitchen.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the camera app, checking my appearance. My dark hair is too long, falling over my eyes, but since Easton told me he likes it like this, I don’t plan on having it cut anytime soon.

He comes back a moment later, and I quickly shove my phone away. Too late. He already caught me checking myself. He smiles at the TV and picks up his controller, getting back to the game.

“Did you call Mick today?” he asks.

I hesitate, unsure how he’s going to react. “Yeah.”

It’s a long, tense moment before he asks, “What did he say?”

“He wants me to go in for an interview tomorrow.”

He nods a few times. “So you do wanna play.”

“I want a job.”

“Sure,” is all he says.

I shift in my seat, my elbow nudging his arm as I try to get comfortable. We play the game in silence—tense, uncomfortable, unbearable silence—until he huffs a laugh and scoots into the corner of the sofa, widening his legs.

“Come here,” he says.

I hesitate, but he’s too impatient for that.

Grabbing my arm, he pulls me into him, my back to his chest, and wraps his arms around my middle, his chin resting on my shoulder as he continues to play.

I freeze. Holding my breath, I try to hide the way my heart is beating so fast. There’s no way he can’t tell though.

I’m sure he can feel the rapid beat of the pulse in my neck against his jaw.

I stop bothering to pretend I’m paying attention to the game and slowly turn my head to face him, my brows pinching at the look on his face.

“What’s that smile for?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I just forgot how fun you are.”

I lift a brow. “To fuck with?”

“And to fuck. God, you were fun to fuck. Remember that thing you used to do with your hips?” he murmurs in my ear.

Dropping his controller, it tumbles to the floor as he slides his palm up my inner thigh.

He digs his thumb into my hip, his long fingers curling into the crease between my hip and leg.

I jolt, my head tipping back on his shoulder.

“When you’d ride me and I wouldn’t let you touch yourself,” he goes on, “so you’d roll your hips just right and make yourself come hands-free.

It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. ”

My nostrils flare. “One of?”

I feel his lips curl into a smile against my face. “Jealous?”

“Asshole.”

He tightens his grip, and I whimper.

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” I admit. “I’m jealous. It kills me that you’ve been with other people.

But I don’t care what you say or how many threesomes you’ve had.

There’s no way you’ve had hotter sex than the sex we used to have.

There’s no way anyone else gave you what you needed.

Only I know how to do that.” I’m panting by the time I’m done, my hips rolling up into nothing, my hands fisting the sofa at my sides.

“So full of yourself,” he teases.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

He doesn’t. I grin. That’s what I fucking thought.

“On your back,” he says.

Desperate to prove myself, I turn around without a second thought, lying flat on my back with my legs on either side of him. He rises to kneel between them, his hands running up my thighs, his fingers curling over my waistband.

“If you touch me, I’ll come,” I warn, knowing he’s not about to let me. I know him well enough to know I haven’t earned it yet.

He keeps going, pulling my sweats down to reveal my hard dick.

“Good thing I’m not planning on touching you then,” he says as he pulls his own dick out.

Straddling me with one leg hooked over my hip, the other between my legs, he fists himself at the base and spits on it, using his free hand to rub it over his length, getting himself wet.

Eyes on my face, he begins slowly jerking himself off, his knuckles just shy of brushing over my cock with every pass.

My ass clenches, and my hips move of their own accord, chasing his warmth, the friction of his?—

He presses down on my thigh, keeping me still.

“You gonna mark me?” I ask.

“Mhm.”

Breathing heavily, I flex my hands, wanting to touch him but resisting because I haven’t been given permission to.

I open my mouth to ask for it, but he shakes his head, his pace quickening as he pushes the hem of my T-shirt up to my neck, revealing my abs and chest—my tattoo.

His hand stays where it is, pinning me down by my throat.

“Not this time, baby,” he says softly. “Just stay still for me, okay?”

I stay completely still, cutting my eyes between his face, his body, and his cock that’s now fucking his fist.

I groan right along with him when he comes on my dick. His hips stutter as he lowers his forehead against mine, his quick breaths hitting my lips, his body jerking with aftershocks.

“Don’t wash it off,” he whispers as he snaps my waistband back into place. “Sleep in it. On your front. I want you to feel me every time you move against the sheets tonight.”

I squirm without meaning to, and he brushes my jaw with his knuckles. Just as I lean into his touch, he pulls back to tuck his cock back into his jeans. Standing, he grabs his phone and our empty beer bottles from the table, clearly planning on leaving me here like this.

“How many people have you been with since me?” I ask.

He pauses. “I don’t know. A lot.”

“How many of them were guys?”

Another pause, and then he turns his head to look at me. “None.”

Hope swirls in my chest.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “You’re still the only guy I’ve ever been with. Not for lack of trying. Trust me. I fucking tried.”

I swallow. “What happened?”

“They weren’t you,” he says as he walks out.