Page 83 of The Revenge Game

My mind spins even as my body arches into his touch.

“Drew,” he rasps. And his voice is so splintered with need that it scrambles my brain. It feels like the only truth that matters is his hands on my skin.

If it wasn’t for one small, niggling fact.

He’s still saying the wrong name.

I wrench my lips off his with a gasp, my chest heaving.

When I meet Justin’s gaze, his eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown out with desire, mouth red and blurry from our kissing.

But whatever he sees in my expression causes his forehead to crease. “Is everything okay?”

The vulnerability on his face makes my heart stutter, and realization dawns on me.

If I stop this now, I’ll hurt him.

I’m the first guy he’s ever felt comfortable enough to kiss. How damaging would it be if I stopped this now without any explanation?

And I don’t want to hurt him.

Among all the desire pulsing inside me—and one part of me is definitely pulsing—that thought cuts through.

I don’t want to hurt Justin.

I can give him this. I can give my friend Justin this.

And okay, it’s not completely altruistic because I’ve never been more turned on than I am right now. I’ve never had someone’s touch make me feel like I’m simultaneously falling apart and being put back together.

Justin’s still staring at me, a small line between his eyebrows, and the vulnerability in his expression decides it for me.

“Everything is fine,” I say, stretching to kiss him again.

We sink into the kiss, and I slide my hands under his T-shirt to touch that golden skin.

The reality of this moment hits me—this is Justin Morris. Justin the golden quarterback, the class president, the guy whose smile used to light up entire hallways.

Now that smile is pressed against my mouth, those perfect lips moving against mine urgently like someone’s finally given him permission to reach for what he’s always denied himself.

I tug at his T-shirt, needing to feel more of him. He shifts to help me. Our movements are clumsy, like two people trying to undress while auditioning forBritain’s Least Graceful Dancer.

But it appears neither of us is willing to break contact for more than a second.

When we finally get his shirt off, I have to pause just to look at him. The light streaming through my window catches on his shoulders, turning his skin to gold.

He looks like he was created from honey and sunshine. His body is a testament to years of athleticism, broad shoulderstapering to narrow hips, ab muscles defined with a tantalizing V that disappears beneath his waistband like a promise. My mouth goes dry.

A scatter of freckles dusts his shoulders like nature couldn’t resist adding finishing touches to his perfection.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, and the vulnerability still in his expression makes my heart constrict.

I kiss him again, trying to show with my actions that he’s safe with me.

His hands are trembling slightly against my skin, and that small tell of his nerves does more to turn me on than any confident touch could.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispers against my mouth.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We can take this as slow as you want.”