Page 75 of For the Fans

“God, you’re uptight.” He drops his head back on the pillow with a breathy chuckle. “The more pressure you put on it, the weirder it’s gonna be.”

I glare at him. “Well, what the fuck do you suggest? Should I just fucking dive on top of you?? I’m not attracted to you, Avi.”

His chin slopes as he aims a narrowed gaze at my face that brings unwanted heat rushing up my neck.It must be the booze.

“You’re not?” His eyebrow arches, and I shake my head firmly. “Not even alittle…?”

“No.” My teeth grind together as he sits up.

Tugging his shirt over his head, he tosses it off to the side, and I can feel my pulse speeding up with my nerves. I fuckingdespisethis reaction because it makes no sense.

I don’t want to be nervous around him… I don’t want him thinking it’s because Ienjoydoing this.

I don’t.

“You must be a really good actor then.” Avi’s lips curve at the corner, into one of his stupid fucking dimples. “Ditch the football and you could be the next Jake Gyllenhaal.”

Frustration tenses my muscles. “You’re not making this any easier, asshole.”

He leans in closer, dropping a hand over my hips until he’s trapping me in place. I try to scoot away, but there’s nowhere to go, and now my pulse is really pounding inside my skull.

“Whether or not we’re faking this for the money, you can’t deny that you got off, Kyran,” he mumbles. “I was there. I saw it.”

“That doesn’t mean anything…” I force myself not to focus on the heat suddenly baking me inside this bubble of tension, his cinnamon sugar breath, or his scent, like cloves, mild weed, and something familiar I can’t put my finger on.

I don’twantto put my finger on it. I just want to get through this as unscathed as possible so I can stay in school.

Focus. Think about the money.

He looks like he has a hundred more wise-ass remarks on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps them in, lifting his hand and slowly moving it up to the zipper on my hoodie. Our eyes meet and his brow lifts, subtly, as if he’s asking a question.

A question my mouth wants to shout a resoundingnoto, but instead my chin bobs in a small, uneasy nod.

He draws the zipper down, watching as it descends. Then he pushes the fabric off my shoulders, and as much as I don’t want to, I help him get it off. Sucking in a breath, I pull my t-shirt over my head before he can attempt to do it for me, because Ireallydon’t want it to feel like he’s undressing me…

But then his index finger draws a line along my waist, where the band of my boxers is visible from beneath my joggers.

I snatch his wrist in my hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m touching you, Kyran,” he hums, impatience framing his tone. Something about it causes an unwanted tickle in the pit of my stomach that makes me feel sick. “Do you not want me to?”

“No,” I growl. “I don’t.”

His head slants, and he blinks knowingly at me. “Then why are you here?”

My lips part, but I have no answer. There’s no way to do this without him touching me. It’s the unfortunate truth to this fucked-up situation.

So I swallow down even more unrest, release his wrist, and kick off my shoes, letting them clunk to the floor.

“You got here pretty fast after the game…” he croons, dropping a hand onto my thigh. My throat is all dry and scratchy. “I take it that kiss with Cheerleader Barbie didn’t go anywhere…?”

“W-why do you care?” I hate how the words stammer out of my desert-throat.

He shrugs subtly, that goddamn hand crawling toward my crotch. My heart is hammering, rattling my ribs as I sit, frozen, watching it like a venomous cobra. But it diverts its path, moving up to my abs, his fingers gently grazing my happy trail until I flinch.

“Just wondering…” His voice is a raspy whisper. The camera might not even pick it up. “If you already got off, or if this will be over much quicker.”

“I’ll be imagining I’m with her either way,” I grunt.