Page 19

Chapter nineteen

Finn

My body isn’t my own yet. I’m still on cloud fucking nine, barely holding myself up on unstable arms. With every nerve wired from the way he just broke me, my skin thrums with oversensitivity.

Behind me, Foxx is silent. I don’t even hear him breathe.

Then there’s a shift, a subtle movement, and the absence of him is immediate, unbearable.

The heat of his body vanishes, replaced by a cool draft against my back, and the room feels too big, too quiet.

He’s so fucking good at pulling me out of my own head, at stripping me down to nothing but raw feeling, but the quiet after feels so fucking loud. I need more of him.

A rustle from his desk drawer makes me straighten, forcing my body to comply as I tuck myself away. Then comes a metallic clink, sharp in the silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of a belt being unbuckled.

I turn quickly, blinking through the haze of my own spent body, but the second my eyes land on him, my breath catches.

Foxx stands there, his shirt still wrinkled, cheeks pink. His hand moves with practiced ease, methodical, clinical, like he’s trying to erase the evidence.

Except the evidence is right in front of me. He came.

A slow, molten heat curls low in my stomach, the aftershocks of pleasure giving way to something deeper, something possessive and intoxicating. My head tilts back as a groan escapes me, my body reigniting even as exhaustion weighs me down.

“Fuck me, Foxx.” My voice is hoarse, thick with exhaustion, with awe, with absolute fucking lust that makes me want to drop to my knees and clean him with my tongue.

His chest rises too fast, pupils blown wide, lips parted just enough to tell me he hasn’t fully caught his breath either. A lazy smirk tugs at my lips, creeping in despite the way my body feels seconds from giving out. “Did you just come in your pants?”

His jaw locks, the muscle twitching.

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches me, breathing heavily, fingers still curled around himself like he hasn’t fully let go.

I see it, the flicker of conflict, the frustration bleeding into humiliation, the realization that he was so fucking gone for what we just did that he lost control completely.

Then, with gritted teeth, he yanks his hand away, quickly fastening his belt like he can undo what just happened. But that’s not something I’ll forget in a hurry.

“Foxx,” I murmur, softer now. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him, to test the boundaries here.

His gaze snaps to mine, still dark and sharp, but there’s something else there too.

The reality of the fact that he came, fully dressed, untouched, simply by what he did to me.

I push up from the desk, steadying myself as I take a step toward him.

My body feels weak, unsteady, but I don’t let it show.

Instead, I hold his gaze, watching him closely, waiting for the moment he cracks.

He exhales, drags a hand down his face, and shakes his head once. When he finally speaks, his voice is shaky.

“You need to leave. Anyone could walk in.” He’s back to frowning and looking like he wants to kill me, but I know he can’t resist me now.

I arch an eyebrow, unfazed, taking another slow step forward.

I could touch him if I wanted to. But he’s still on edge, still wound so fucking tight, and it’s probably because he’s feeling a little exposed.

He might’ve come, but his body hasn’t fully let go.

He’s tense, fighting whatever war is raging in his head.

Eh, fuck it. I’m about to make it worse.

I reach out, fingers grazing the leather of his belt where he just tucked himself away. The touch is barely there, teasing, testing. “Didn’t seem to bother you a second ago.”

His nostrils flaring, fingers snapping out to grip my wrist in a firm, unyielding hold.

The heat between us spikes instantly, a pull so strong it steals the breath from my lungs.

Licking my lips, I tilt my head as my gaze flicks up to his. “I can still feel how hard you are. Do you need more from me?”

His fingers press into my skin in a silent warning.

But he doesn’t deny it. He also doesn’t push me away.

I smirk, leaning in just enough to let my lips brush along the sharp line of his scruff covered jaw. “We’re not done, and I think you already know that.”

His grip tightens for a second, then abruptly releases, like he’s just remembered himself, like he’s just realized how close he was to pulling me back in.

He steps away, forcing space between us, his hands shoving into his pockets. His breath comes a little too slow, but uneven, the kind of inhale someone takes when they’re coming down from exercise.

Then, after a pause, he lifts his chin and fixes me with a cool stare. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says, but his voice is water thin. He already knows this isn’t over.

Running a hand through my tousled hair, I exhale loudly. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, a heavy, burning weight that follows my every move. “Is it just the student thing now? Because fuck them; we’re both adults.”

He sighs. “It’s not that simple—”

I interrupt him. “Then make it that simple.”

His hand raises. “If you let me finish…” He pauses, looking slightly tortured.

“It’s not that simple because I still want you ,” he says, eyes on mine.

“I finally took something for myself, and it’s blown up in my face, twice, but that doesn’t make me feel like I can deny you.

It doesn’t touch the part of me that still wants this.

” Gesturing between us, he lets out a laugh that’s bitter at the edges.

“Tell me that’s not fucked up. That I know this is wrong, and it's more than likely temporary, and I don’t care. ”

Something in my body doesn’t like the word temporary , but I tamp it down, because what else he’s saying is more important right now.

“That’s not fucked up. That’s honest. You want me.

I want you. And we’re standing here acting like that’s the problem instead of everything else we keep trying to hide behind.

” I step toward him, but don’t reach for him.

“I’m not asking you to blow up your life.

I just want more of you. Why can’t we just lean into that for a little while?

I have no plans to fuck up your career. We share one measly class for one freaking year, and if you’re still worried, we can be discreet about this.

The only other person who knows is my sister, Daphne, and probably her boyfriend. ”

His face falls into the palms of his hands. “That’s already two people, Finn.”

“She won’t say anything. Neither will he. I’ve already spoken to them.”

He holds my gaze, searching for something. Maybe a reason to say no, or a reason to not want me as much as he does. “I’m supposed to take comfort in that? Leaving things up to chance isn’t really my strength. I like probable outcomes.”

His dark eyes are burdened with something he doesn’t say. The want is there, but so is the cost.

“You’re a risk I can’t predict the outcome of,” he says finally. “You show up and everything I’ve kept in order starts slipping. I like order, Finn.”

I take another step closer, the pull to him effortless. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. And I’m not here to wreck that. But maybe there’s room for something that doesn’t fit your system.”

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, yet burn with desire.

“We don’t have to name it. We don’t have to plan it. But I think you need it too. When was the last time you took a risk?”

He stares at me for a long second, and I see a myriad of emotions cross his face.

His internal battle is practically pulsing off him in waves.

Then, relenting, he closes his eyes and nods once.

A surrender without saying the word. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers.

“I usually have rules and boundaries and you…” He doesn’t carry on, but the implication is clear.

I’m not something he can figure out, and I can’t deny that I like that.

“Just don’t walk away from it,” I say, when my brain thinks, don’t walk away from me.

***

I exhale slowly, sinking deeper into my childhood bed. The mattress is too firm, the sheets unfamiliar again after months away. Everything in here belongs to a different version of me, one who still believed in something. One who didn’t know what it was like to watch someone vanish beneath a wave.

Maybe I should redecorate. I’m tired of the reminders. Of the kid who thought he was untouchable. Who thought the ocean was the only thing that made sense.

Then I remember how long it took me to decorate this room in the first place, how much I begged Daphne to help me. The effort was only worth it once. Yeah, fuck that. I don’t wanna redecorate. I don’t plan on living in this house for the rest of my life anyway.

My fingers move without thinking, scrolling through my camera roll, looking for something. Dr. Hale said it might help to look at photos of Jared. To stop flinching every time I see his face. To let the memories exist without immediately trying to outrun them.

It’s exposure therapy, basically. I guess there's no time like the present.

I swipe past old surf shots, team dinners, blurry hotel room selfies.

And then the picture of my closest friend appears.

He’s grinning at the edge of the water, soaked to the skin, giving me the finger with one hand and holding a bottle of Gatorade in the other.

His board’s behind him. His laugh is practically frozen in the frame.

I can almost hear it still. That day was one of our rare days off and, not surprisingly, we’d spent it surfing, but comp surfing and fun surfing are two entirely different things.

We caught so many incredible waves that day, he wiped the floor with me. He was incredible.

My throat slowly starts to close, and I try to swallow past it, but it burns. The salt returns to my lungs as I shout his name underwater over and over, searching the dark blue.

I know it’s just a picture. I know. I close my eyes, forcing my lungs to settle. But it hits like a punch, because this day was only one week before everything changed. I remember thinking we had all the time in the world, and we were so lucky to do what we do.

And suddenly, I can’t take a full breath.

The room spins a little. My hands go cold and clammy. That familiar squeeze wraps around my ribs, tight and cruel.

No. No. I can control this.

Okay. Nuts. Name some, focus. What are the names? Come on.

Almond. Cashew. Macadamia. Pistachio.

I whisper them to the ceiling, voice shaky but steadying with each one. My pulse is still racing, but it’s not galloping anymore. I focus on my fingers curled in the sheets. The sound of the wind outside. The ridiculousness of the nut list.

Hazelnut, I add, because five things are better than four.

I don’t close the photo. I don’t look away. I just breathe. I let the ache settle instead of fighting it. And eventually, when the worst has passed, I swipe away with a deep breath.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, a headache forming behind my eyes, when my phone buzzes again.

Foxx

I’m almost positive you weren’t listening in class.

My panic ebbs away, not because of the accusation, since he’s right, I probably wasn’t. But because it’s the first thing in the last ten minutes that doesn’t make me feel like I’m back there, reliving that day. I’m grateful for his timing.

I sit up, shucking off the remaining weight pressing against my ribs. I shouldn’t be relieved to hear from him. I shouldn’t be looking at his message like it’s a tether, grounding me. But I am and he is.

The smart thing would be to take a second to pull myself together before I respond, but my fingers are already moving across the keyboard.

It’s been a week of us trying to figure out how to work all of this between us.

Combined with him working late and me having Rosie extra, we’ve resorted to texts since the office incident.

Finn

It was difficult to concentrate when you rolled your shirt sleeves up. Such slutty forearms, they should be illegal.

I hit send, shifting against the pillows, my phone resting on my chest as I wait. The seconds stretch out, long enough that I start to wonder if he’ll even respond, long enough for that familiar gnawing feeling of restlessness to start creeping in.

Foxx

Slutty forearms? That’s a first.

The tension in my chest lifts.

I smirk, fingers tapping against the screen.

Finn

Totally slutty.

Foxx

I’m still not sure that’s a compliment.

I roll onto my side, dragging my hand through my hair. The typing bubble appears, disappears, reappears.

Foxx

You planning on showing up at my office again tomorrow?

Finn

You want me to?

Foxx

You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Finn

Yeah. I would.

I don’t even think about it. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Despite his warning, that moment has been on repeat in my mind as I fuck my hand every single night.

Foxx

Come to my place instead, around eight. Arrive hungry.

The grin that blooms over my lips feels so genuine it makes me a little giddy. Arrive hungry? That sounds like a win-win for me.

I’m hoping for dinner and dessert, with a hefty dose of distraction too.