Page 30 of Mr. Brightside

I blink slowly to regain my composure, avoiding his gaze for a few seconds so he doesn’t see how deeply his touch affects me.

He wants to call me baby, and he can get me hard with a graze of my thigh. I’m so screwed.

I clear my throat and crack my knuckles before responding. “You know what Planned Parenthood is, right?”

“Yes…?” he draws out his response in question.

“My dream is to open up a clinic—or lots of clinics, eventually—that’s like Planned Parenthood, but for mental health. It would be donation based with suggested fees, but we’d never turn anyone away who needed help. It would be open to everyone, with an emphasis on serving young people, people of color, and the LGBTQ community. Basically, anyone who faces barriers to obtaining mental health services for whatever reason.”

“That is…” He trails off as he looks at me, wonderment in his gaze. “That’s amazing. And very specific. Have you been thinking about this for a long time?”

“For years,” I admit with a nod. “It’s always just been a dream, something I hoped to work toward but that I knew would take years to figure out…”

“Wait,” he interrupts, sitting up straight in his seat and reaching over to grip my thigh. “Cory. With the money… you could totally make that happen.”

Warmth blossoms through me at his genuine enthusiasm.

“I know,” I murmur, tracing the veins in his hand with the tips of my fingers. He doesn’t pull back, and I boldly find the courage to lift his hand and place it higher on my thigh.

He squeezes me through my jeans, his fingers curling under and wrapping around my inner thigh. His hand’s only a few inches higher than before, but his hold on me is everything. I have to physically hold myself back from thrusting against his touch. Or forcing his hand higher.

“You trying to make me be bad for you, baby?”

Fuck. I want him so bad.

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to take this slow anymore?” His tone is guttural and strained, as if he’s working to hold back from what we both know is inevitable.

Slow. He promised me slow. I agreed I wanted slow. Maybe if he just slowly strokes up and down my…

Mierda. I have to get it together. I don’t want our firstanythingas an actual couple to happen in the front seat of this Jeep. We’ve got two whole years together. I blow out a long breath and silently plead with my dick to deflate. Why am I such a manwhore for Jake Whitely?

My brain scrambles for something that’ll get us back on track as I shift out of his grasp. I don’t even think the question through before I rush out and ask it.

“How many people have you been with?”

He audibly hisses as he grits his teeth and lifts his hand from my thigh.

“You promised you’d be honest,” I remind him.

“I did. And I will be. The answer is a lot,” he responds with a pensive nod.

“I want to know the number, Jake.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen because I don’t know the number, Cory.”

His tone is a mix of defensiveness and shame.

I assess his slouched shoulders and sullen expression. I don’t think he’s lying, but now I’m morbidly curious to get to the bottom of this. “Why don’t you know the number?” I pry.

He blows out a long breath before turning to face me head-on. “Look, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but once the number hit a certain milestone, I stopped counting.”

“Dios mío,” I mutter, a flurry of concern and jealousy swirling inside me.

“Ialwaysused protection, and I used to get tested regularly.”

“Used to?” I challenge.

His cheeks color for just a few seconds at the callout. “Yeah, used to. I haven’t actually hooked up with anyone in a long time. It’s been well over a year, maybe two.”