Page 149 of The Play Maker

She shakes her head. “I wanna go to your room.”

I arch a brow. “My room?”

She nods. “I need to lie down. Your bed is nice and soft and smells like you. I like it there,” she adds with this dreamy little sigh.

I chuckle. She’s so damn cute. “Okay. Let’s go.”

I guide her down the hall, one hand pressed to the small of her back, the other hovering in case she tips over.

“Did I mention you smell good?” she asks as I push open my door.

“You might’ve,” I say, flipping on the lamp by my desk.

“You smell like heaven,” she says, dreamily, which makes me chuckle.

I help her sit on my bed and reach into my nightstand, grabbing a pack of Oreos for her, hoping it’ll soak up some of the alcohol—always keep one there just for her. There’s even a jar of peanut butter nearby. I hold out a water bottle, expecting her to take a sip. Instead, she lets the bottle hit the mattress and grabs a fistful of my hoodie, yanking me toward her.

And before I can react, she’s kissing me.

My brain short-circuits when her mouth meets mine, and instinct takes over as I kiss her back, my hands braced on either side of her thighs. It’s hot, fast and a little messy and I can’t think straight.

Her fingers sneak under my hoodie, tugging at the hem of my shirt, and then she starts to pull it up, trying to undress me.

“Wait—” I murmur against her lips, catching her wrists. “Maisie, hold up.”

She locks eyes with me and licks her lips. “I want to have sex.”

Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Not because I don’t want to—God, I want to—but because she’s clearly very drunk and not thinking straight.

I pull back fast, shaking my head. “Maisie…”

She sways a little as she kneels on my bed, placing her hands on my chest. “I want to,” she says again. “I want to. Please.”

Fuck.

I close my eyes for half a second, because it kills me to say no. I want this girl so bad, and every part of me wants to climb into that bed and touch every inch of her. But not like this. Not when she’s drunk out of her mind and will wake up tomorrow with no memory of what happened.

I cup her jaw, brushing my thumb under her cheek. “You’re drunk, baby,” I say, meeting her eyes. “And as much as I want this—Jesus, you have no idea how much—I’m not doing it like this. I’m not taking advantage of you when you’re drunk.”

Her face twists. “You’re not taking advantage. I said I want to.”

“I know you did. I believe you.” I kiss her forehead. “But I want you to be sober when I finally slide inside you.”

“I’m not drunk, Austin,” she insists, even though the words come out slurred. “Here, I’ll prove it.”

She leans in and kisses me again. And because I’ve fallen way too fucking hard for this girl, I kiss her back, even though I know I shouldn’t. Fuck, I love kissing her. I used to truly take kissing for granted. I didn’t care much for it, never really thought about it. It was always just a step toward hooking up. But I could sit here and kiss her for fucking hours.

“Please,” she breathes against my mouth. “Please, Austin.”

The sound of my name on her lips undoes something in me. I close my eyes and exhale, my heart thudding so loud I can barely think straight.

I pull back just enough to see her face. “Maisie,” I say quietly. “Why now?”

She blinks a couple of times, and her shoulders fall as she sinks back on her heels, the fight bleeding out of her. And then, just like that, her expression crumples, like paper in a fist.

“Because I’m scared,” she whispers.

My brows tug together. “Scared of what, gorgeous?”