Текст книги "Four Years Later"

Автор книги: Monica Murphy

Соавторы: Monica Murphy
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CHAPTER 15

Owen

I wait for her answer, all the words I could ever say to ease her worries clogged in my throat. She stares at me, my bold, beautiful princess gone in an instant, replaced with my wide-eyed, lip-chewing, nervous Chelsea.

I’m familiar with this version but I much preferred the girl with no boundaries, the one who begged me. That had been hot. And I know she’s still there, buried beneath the nerves and the expectations. I just need to coax her back out.

“I …” She breathes deep and closes her eyes, drops her head so her forehead is pressed against mine. “Yes,” she admits, her voice small. “You’re my first.”

I knew it. I’ve always known it, pretty much from the first moment I met her, but to actually hear her say the words confirming my suspicions sends a bolt of possessiveness throughout my entire body. It’s electric, this feeling. Vibrating beneath my skin, making me shake, and I tighten my arms around her, hold her close. Move my head so I can whisper in her ear, “We gotta make this good for you, Chels.”

“It is good,” she whispers back. “So, so good.”

Closing my eyes, I hold her, convincing myself to calm the fuck down. I’m not doing this. I’m not fucking her in a hotel room in an unknown city, Chelsea still edged with that hint of sadness that had consumed her earlier. I don’t care how bold she is, how much she wants it, how good she feels, her naked body pressed against mine.

I’m high. I might not remember this clearly. Worse, I might mess up somehow and I could never, ever forgive myself for that.

“I just want you to touch me.” She sounds restless, frustrated, and I lean away from her so I can look at her pretty face. Smoothing my hand over her hair, I push the stray strands away from her cheeks, my gaze locking with hers.

“I want to touch you, too,” I admit, letting my eyes drop to her chest. God, she’s perfect. I’ve never liked big or fake boobs, and I feel like Chelsea’s were made just for me. Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around her breast and squeeze, circling my thumb around her rosy nipple.

Her pretty little nipple reminds me of her middle name. The poem I wrote for her. How I could reenact that poem right here, right now. Slip my hand between her legs, searching those pretty pink folds, and have her crying out my name, shattering in an instant …

“Lie back,” I tell her, removing my hand from her chest so I can guide her where I want her.

She goes willingly, her body trembling, her eyes wide as she stares up at me. I lean over and kiss her, taking it deep and hot in an instant, hoping she’ll lose her head so she’s not so focused on the moment and worrying what’s about to happen to her.

“Have you ever touched yourself, Chels?” I move so I’m the one straddling her now, my mouth on her breasts, my lips wrapped around one nipple, then another. She arches into me, a breathy little moan escaping her, and my cock is hard, heavy and aching as it presses against my briefs, desperate to get free.

Damn it, I can’t take off my underwear. The moment I do, I’m done for. I’ll be inside her so fast she won’t know what happened.

“Hey.” I lightly bite her nipple, making her yelp, and she glares up at me, shock written all over her face. “I asked you a question.”

“A question I’m not going to answer, Owen.” She slings her arm over her eyes and huffs out a breath. Indicating that yes, indeed, she has touched herself, and that particular image pops into my brain with so much force I have to take an imaginary crowbar to it and pry it out of there before I get too distracted.

“Hmm, that tells me a lot.” I let my hand wander down the length of her body, trying my best to pay close attention to all the signs, the indications of what she likes, what makes her crazy, what doesn’t do anything for her. She prefers a gentle touch. I’ve discovered that over the last couple of weeks, every time I’ve had her in my arms. A skim of my nails along her skin, or I’ll rub circles in her neck, along her shoulders, kiss her softly, taking it deeper, licking her neck …

I keep my touch light, running my fingers along her arm, across her stomach, back up to circle her breasts, her nipples. She holds her breath, releasing it in a shuddery exhale before she holds it again, and I smile at her, loving how strongly my touch makes her react.

“Breathe, Chels.” I dip my head and lick her nipple, making her gasp. “The only way you can enjoy this is if you’re breathing.”

“Trust me, I’m enjoying it, Owen.” Her voice trembles and she closes her eyes when my fingers map the sweet curve of her stomach, circle the slight dip of her belly button. Her skin is so fucking soft. Everywhere. “So, so much.”

She spreads her legs the slightest bit and my hand wanders farther, grazing her pubic hair, the heat of her branding my hand and I haven’t even touched her there yet. I can smell her, though, lemony sweet, unique and musky, the scent of sex and woman and Chelsea.

I slip one finger down, encountering wetness. Heat. So much heat. I go farther and groan when I find her slick and creamy. Hot and wet. I search her folds at the same time I fuse my mouth with hers and swallow her cry.

She moves her hips against my finger and I add another, then my thumb, which I use to circle her clit. I keep it slow, my kiss slow, my brain slow as I bring her closer. Closer still.

Responsive. She’s so responsive. I never want this to stop. I want to remember this moment forever and I’m afraid it’ll slip right out of my brain when I fall asleep afterward. Sometimes when I’m high, I forget. And the shit I smoked earlier had been good. Too good. The kind of good that’ll make you forget everything, because that’s what you usually want to do when you smoke weed.

But I don’t want to forget any of this. This moment is one of the most important of my life. I’m about to make Chelsea come for the first time by my hand.

Not necessarily a moment I can talk about in public, but it’s mine. All mine. And I don’t ever want to forget it.

“Owen.” She breathes my name across my lips, the sound of her voice sending a spiral of heat throughout my blood, and I lick her lips, thrust my tongue in her mouth, silencing her.

I push my index finger inside her, her tight, velvety hot flesh clamping all around me. God, she would feel so amazing around my cock. Too damn amazing. I’d probably come in an instant.

I could almost come just thinking about it.

She moves against my hand, thrusting her hips, arching her back, trying to send me deeper. I add another finger, my thumb brushing her clit back and forth, over and over, and she lifts her hips higher, her feet planted on the mattress, her legs spread.

I’m watching her, fascinated by how she reacts to my touch. She’s chanting my name, saying shit I can’t even understand, and I hook my finger deep inside her, press my thumb hard against her clit. She stills, her lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut.

And then she’s coming, her entire body shaking. I can feel her orgasm to her very depths, can feel the trembling and rhythmic pulsating deep within her body, all around my fingers.

It’s like a fucking miracle. Her body responds naturally, beautifully. She sinks to the mattress, limp and sated, still trembling, her legs spread wide and all that pink, slick goodness still on display.

Hell. If I could sink deep inside her right now and lose myself, I so would.

But I won’t. For once in my life, I’m not going to be selfish. I’ll be the giver but not the taker. No matter how difficult it is.

Slowly I withdraw my fingers from her body, leaning in and giving her a kiss before I bring my fingers to my lips and smell her lingering scent. Taste her.

Next time I make her come, I think I should do it with my mouth.

“Oh my God, did you just lick your fingers?” She releases a shuddery sigh and I touch her lips with my hand, trace them with my index finger. The very one that had just been buried deep inside her.

“I promise, next time I’m going down on you. Taste yourself,” I say, feeling like a dirty bastard but I don’t care. Heat flares in my gut as she tentatively darts her tongue out and licks, her expression full of curiosity.

“Salty,” she whispers.

I stretch out beside her, brush my lips against her forehead. “Delicious.”

She loops her arm around me and nestles close, her face against my chest. The room is quiet, I can still hear her accelerated breaths, and I run my fingers over her tangled hair, again and again, hoping to soothe.

“That was …” Her voice drifts off.

“Good? Okay? So-so?”

Chelsea giggles and presses a kiss to my chest. “It was wonderful and you know it.”

“Glad to hear it.” My cock is throbbing, reminding me it has needs too, but I tell the greedy bastard to back off.

“But what about you? Don’t you want to …”

“Come? Not tonight, Chels. Tonight is all about you.” I kiss her forehead again, needing her to know how much she matters to me though I’m not sure how I can put it into words.

So I remain quiet, just holding her, trying to calm my racing heart, enjoying the blankness that still lingers in my brain. I could go to sleep like this.

If a certain naked Chelsea would stop wiggling against me.

“But aren’t you …”

I love how she can’t come right out and say it. It’s kind of cute. “Hard? Hell yeah. You want to feel it?”

“No!” She pauses, and I muffle a laugh. “Yes,” she says shyly. “I do. Really.”

“Then go for it.” I pull away from her slightly so I’m lying on my back, practically daring her to make a grab. I remove my arm from beneath her and fold both arms behind my head, going for casual, easygoing nothingness.

Inside, though, my nerves are rioting. My body’s screaming for her to touch me. I doubt she’ll work up the nerve.

Chelsea

There’s no way after what he gave me that I’m not going to give him something in return.

My body is still a shuddery, limp mess. I’ve never been very comfortable touching my body. I’ve read books that have given me pleasurable tingles between my legs and I’d try a few times to touch myself there, but I never was really comfortable with it.

I’ve lived such a sheltered life. Parents who never talked about sex but a father who was out screwing every woman he could find. The contradiction there is a psychiatrist’s dream, I’m sure.

I’ve read enough and watched enough TV and movies to know that sex can be amazing. Can feel so good. Usually it just scared me. Not with Owen, though. And the way he just touched me … God.

That had been amazing.

He thinks I’m not going to touch him in return, though. I can tell by the teasing tone of his voice, the smug look as he flops flat on his back, his arms behind his head, a little smirk on his face.

I prop myself up on my elbow and study him. Starting with his strong, muscular neck, his firm collarbone, his beautiful chest. His nipples are flat, brown, and small and his tanned skin is stretched taut over solid, beautifully shaped muscle. His stomach is ridged and flat, that dark brown trail of hair leading from his navel toward his erection fascinating. Without thought I reach out, drag my finger through the downy soft hair. Following down, down, until I brush against his erection.

It twitches and moves beneath the fabric of his boxer briefs, and I draw my hand back as if it just tried to bite me.

Owen laughs, and I turn a murderous glare on him. “Don’t make fun,” I say, my voice prim.

“Ah, Chels. Never. You’re just too cute.” He cups my cheek, his thumb gliding over my skin. “You’ve never touched a guy like this before, have you?”

“No.” I feel silly, being so inexperienced, and I shouldn’t beat myself up over it. When would I ever get a chance to do something like this? I’ve been alone and socially awkward most of my teenage years. Boys never paid attention to me.

Now I have the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met lying in a bed with me, telling me I’m beautiful, kissing me, bringing me to orgasm with his fingers.

It’s a pretty heady feeling.

“Let’s free the beast.” He starts to tug down his underwear and I laugh at him calling it a beast, then help him, my hands brushing against his firm thighs, his knees, his hairy calves. Until his underwear is around his ankles and he’s kicking them off onto the floor. Naked and bare before me, he resumes his casual position, and all I can do is stare.

I gaze at his erection, fascinated with the shape, the way it arcs toward his stomach. It’s thick and veiny, the head plum-shaped, and a bit of creamy liquid leaks from the tip.

I wrap my fingers around the length of him, marveling at how small my hand looks. He’s big, not outrageously scary or anything, but nothing small either, and I remember how uncomfortable it had felt at first when he slipped his finger inside me.

And supposedly he could push that thing inside me? My body clenches tight just thinking about it.

“You going to hold it or do something with it?” His voice is strained, and he sounds like he’s almost in pain.

“What do you want me to do?”

He reaches out and grips my hand with his, squeezing his erection, showing me how he likes it. He handles himself roughly, tugging and pulling, and I follow his lead, reaching down to caress his balls because you know, I’ve gone this far, so …

Why not?

“Jesus. Just like that,” he encourages, removing his hand from the top of mine, and then I’m on my own. Stroking him hard, then touching him soft. Trying my best to drive him crazy the way he just drove me out of my mind. I trace the distended veins, mapping them with my fingertip. He trembles beneath my touch, his entire body tense, sweat forming on his skin. I can smell him. I want to taste him.

He likes it. I like it. I wish I had the nerve to draw him into my mouth, lick the tip of his erection with my tongue. I want to, but what if I do it wrong? What if I somehow screw it up and he ends up laughing at me?

I don’t know if I could ever recover from that.

“There’s no textbook on how to touch my cock, Chels.”

His words, specifically the use of one particular word, make my entire face burn, especially when he’s so close to figuring out what’s running through my mind. I just flat-out don’t know what to do or how to do it.

“What if I mess up?” I ask, my voice a mere whisper.

“Baby. You touch me and I love it.” What I’m loving is how he just called me baby. “Just do it. Touch me. I’m so close to exploding, I’ll probably come all over your fingers within seconds, so be prepared.”

Um. Wow. He’s just so matter-of-fact about it. I wish I could be the same.

I hold him in my grip and start to move, stroking up and down, squeezing and releasing. He grabs my chin and lifts my face to his, kissing me until I can’t breathe. I’m surrounded by him, can feel him all around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue tangled around mine. I’m stroking him, his hips are thrusting, his other hand comes down and shows me exactly how he likes it again and then he wrenches his mouth from mine, panting hard. I open my eyes, see the agony written all over his handsome face.

“Fuck. Chels, I’m gonna—”

And then he’s coming all over my fingers, just like he said. My fist is slick and wet, and I watch with fascination as he falls apart right before me. Just like I fell apart right before him.

It’s so intimate, so beautiful, that I’m stunned. I just shared something amazing with Owen. Something I’ve never done before with anyone else. I don’t know what to say, how to react.

So I follow his lead. We both go to the bathroom to clean up in the dark so we don’t have to see each other naked in the harsh lights. I think he knows I’m a little mind-blown and still feeling shy, despite what just happened between us. He pulls me to him after I wash my hands, kissing me so softly, so sweetly I melt into him, our naked chests meeting and making my heart pick up speed.

“We need to go to sleep,” he whispers against my lips.

I nod. “I want to leave early. I need to get back home so I can turn in that paper.”

“Always the conscientious student.” He kisses the tip of my nose and takes my hand, leading me from the bathroom toward the bed. “Come on, Chels. I’ll tuck you in.”

I stand back when he fluffs the pillows and pulls down the covers, my gaze locked on his very firm-looking butt. Even in the dim light I can see it and I don’t even care if he catches me totally checking him out.

If he thinks I have a nice one, he should take a look at his. I almost want to fan myself, he’s so hot.

“All right, climb in,” he says with a wave of his hand and I do as he says, lying still as he tugs the blankets up to my chin. Leaning over me, he drops a kiss on my forehead, then rounds the foot of the bed, crawling in beside me.

He lies on his side and pulls me close. I turn into him, resuming my position of before, and I close my eyes, listening to his heartbeat beneath my ear. His fingers tangle in my hair, his mouth whispers against my forehead, and I think he says something but I don’t know what. I’m too sleepy, too far gone to understand him.

But I do know one thing. I’ve never felt so safe, so content, in all my life.

CHAPTER 16

Chelsea

I wait for him, as usual. He’s rarely on time. Only that first official meeting we had, when he’d been trying to impress me, did Owen ever make one of our tutoring sessions when he was supposed to. Normally he runs about ten minutes late.

I forgive him. After all, he’s pretty much my boyfriend, right?

A secret little smile curls my lips as I check my text messages, scrolling past the endless list of the ones from Mom. She can’t stop messaging me. Thank God we’re on an unlimited program or we’d be spending a ton of money on the cell phone bill every month.

She really needs to get a hobby. I’m tired of her worrying about me. Lately she keeps referring to Dad and I don’t know why. He’s not a part of our lives any longer. I thought she’d filed for divorce.

I have a message from Kari, too, asking if I’m coming home tonight. She says she doesn’t feel well and I’d rather avoid her since I don’t want to get sick. It’s Wednesday, and normally I work the night shift, but I went in to the diner yesterday morning, asking my boss if I could have a lighter schedule. He agreed, shifting it around so I wasn’t working such late nights, and I only lost about four hours for the week.

That works out perfectly. I’m not a fan of working the late-night shift and I definitely know Owen isn’t a fan of it either. So I changed my schedule to make him happy.

I’m not working tonight, so I think I might go to Owen’s, I text her.

God, one night alone with him in a hotel room and now you’ve turned into a total whore.

Smiling, I shake my head. I know she’s teasing.

You’re right. I’m a complete whore.

Yay! I’m proud of you. Whores unite!

Laughing, I start texting her back when a big hand covers my eyes, rendering me still. I recognize the familiar hint of autumn and pine scent, but I go along with it.

“Guess who?” Owen’s deep, sexy voice washes over me and I shiver.

“Hmm, I don’t know.”

He chuckles. “Did you just call yourself a whore in your text to Kari?”

“Ohmygod, you weren’t supposed to read that.” I try to jerk out of his hold but he won’t let go. He’s got the back of my head pressed against his chest, and he’s so warm and hard. I try to be angry but I’m not. “Come on, Owen.”

“I have a surprise for you. Ready?” His hand is still over my eyes, blocking my vision completely, and I cross my arms in front of my chest, slightly irritated. I’ve never really liked games like this. They always make me uncomfortable.

“I’m ready,” I say, slightly exasperated.

“Keep your eyes closed until I say you can open them, okay?”

“They’re already closed.” I straighten my shoulders and clutch my phone in my hand, facedown. I so didn’t want Owen to read that text, but I guess he kind of couldn’t help it.

So embarrassing.

He removes his hand from my eyes and I hear a gentle rustling, then something is placed in front of me on the table. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

I glance down to find a pretty pink rose lying on the table, its petals tightly furled, the flower not quite ready to bloom. I pick it up, careful to avoid the thorns, and bring it to my nose, inhaling the rich scent. Even in its budding state, it smells wonderful. “It’s beautiful,” I say, twirling the stem between my fingers.

He sits down across from me, his mouth curved into a small smile. “You like it?”

“I do.” No boy has ever given me flowers before. “I love it.”

“It reminded me of you.” His smile grows and he looks downright wicked. “The pink is the same color as your—”

“Don’t say it.” I lunge across the table and slap my hand over his mouth to keep him from saying God knows what.

I will die of mortification if he says something dirty, I swear to God. I’m still having a hard time facing him right now. We haven’t seen each other since we came home from our football game trip and I’m feeling a little shy.

He rolls his eyes at me and I drop my hand from his face, settling back down in my chair, sending him a warning look.

“I was going to say your lips.” He stresses the last word. “What the hell did you think I was going to say?”

“You know.” I wave a hand, my cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I was hoping we could get through this session without talking about what happened.”

“Really? That’s a damn shame, Chels. I was hoping to spend the entire hour talking about what happened. Reliving it a little. Maybe I could kiss you and convince you to come back to my place later tonight? Like after you’re done with your shift at the diner?”

“You’d really want me to come by when I finish at two in the morning?” I’m shocked.

“Any time I can see you, I want to see you.” He reaches across the table and grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers, pressing our palms together. “I already told you that, remember?”

I set the rose on the table and study it, smooth my fingers over the velvety-soft petals. “Owen. What were you really going to say about the rose?”

“I already told you. The color reminds me of your lips.”

“Really?” I lift my head, our gazes meeting.

He smiles. “Yeah. Well, and your nipples. Since they’re both the same shade of pink.”

“Oh my God.” I try to jerk my hand from his but he won’t let me go. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“You asked.” He shrugs, squeezing my hand in his. “So what do you say? Will you come over tonight? I don’t care what time. I’ll stay up and wait for you.”

I’m sort of in shock at how easy he’s acting around me. Like it’s perfectly normal for him to invite me over at all hours of the night. That he’d speak so casually of lips and nipples, hold my hand, smile that secret smile of his at me.

All I can think is that he’s had his hands all over my body. Inside of me. I’ve had my hands all over his body. I’ve touched him in the most intimate of places, witnessed one of the most intimate acts that can happen between two people, and here we sit like it’s no big deal. Talking about work and school and nipples.

“I went into the diner yesterday morning and spoke with my boss.” I take a deep breath, curl my fingers around Owen’s. “I’m not working that late shift anymore.”

“Well, thank God. I hated that you were out that late.”

“I always had a ride from one of the waitresses who worked with me.” I shrug, secretly pleased he was so concerned about my safety.

“Still. It wasn’t safe.” His eyes go soft, reminding me of the color of grass on a warm summer day. “So you can come over earlier, then.”

“Don’t you have practice?”

“Only till six. I don’t work either tonight. I decided not to work as much as I originally thought I wanted. I’ll add more hours at The District once the football season is over.”

“Well, that sounds good.” That sounds perfect. His schedule is so jam-packed, I’ve been afraid I’d never get to see him.

“I have something else I want to show you.” He reaches down and pulls out a folder from his backpack and then sets it in between us on the table. “It’s my creative writing portfolio.”

“Okay.” I slowly flip it open and see a nice, neat stack of Owen’s writing samples. The list of assignments is stapled on the left side of the folder, check marks by the ones he’d completed. “It looks like you’re pretty much caught up.”

“I am.” He pulls the folder closer to him and rifles through the papers until he finally finds what he wants and pulls it out. “Read this one.”

I take the paper from him, notice the typed words but don’t really see them. “What’s it about?”

“You.”

“Oh.” I’m at a loss for words. He’s being so tender, so sweet. I don’t know what’s happened to make him change.

Disengaging my hand from his, I grab the paper and pull it directly in front of me so I can read it.

Pink and soft

Damp and warm

My pretty little rose

Is my home

I cradle her close

Give her exactly what she needs

And when I’m finished

I’m the one who’s pleased

My entire body is warm. I know what he’s referring to. God, he’s terrible.

In the absolute, most wonderful way a terrible person can be.

“Owen.” I study the words before me, can feel his gaze on me. “This is …”

“Pretty good, huh? I’m not much of a poet and I’m definitely not a rhyming one, but I came up with this last night and I thought it was close. Not perfect rhyming but close enough, you know?”

I remain silent as I read the poem again. And again. On the surface, the words are seemingly innocent.

“Yeah, I was actually doing homework on my own last night after practice. Can you believe it?” I can hear the pride in his voice and I read his words yet again, lingering on the part where he calls his little rose his home.

Does he really feel that way? About me?

“It’s very good.” I finally feel brave enough to look up at him. He’s leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, with a very pleased look on his handsome face.

“I thought so.” He smiles, resting his linked hands on his chest. “You figure out what it’s about yet?”

“Of course I have. I’m not dumb.”

“Never said you were.” His smile grows. “I’m starting to think you’re my muse, Chels. My inspiration.”

My cheeks turn as pink as the rose lying before me. “Don’t you think your teacher will figure what this is about, too? And maybe be offended?”

“I don’t care.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of fun, writing about such … personal things.”

I want to both slug him and kiss him.

He sits up, pulls another sheet of paper out of the folder, and then slides it across the table toward me. “Read this one. I wrote it weeks ago.”

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I vow to win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens only for me …

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Sending her over the edge.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“I had a couple of poem assignments,” he explains, sounding so matter-of-fact while my mind is racing. He’s writing about what’s happening between us, the most intimate moments we’ve shared, and he’s documenting them, immortalizing them. “One could be in whatever format we preferred. And the other one had to rhyme. I don’t know which one I like better. I think they’re both pretty fucking awesome.”

“You said you wrote this one weeks ago?” I study him.

“Uh, yeah.” He finally has the decency to look sheepish. “That night you came over to help me and we had Chinese for dinner.”

“But we hadn’t even …” Kissed? Touched? Nothing had really happened between us at that point.

“I have a very vivid imagination.” The grin fades. His eyes darken, and this cloak of intensity seems to fall over him, the two of us, leaving me breathless. “What happened between us a couple of nights ago, I feel like that poem you just read describes it perfectly. Maybe I can predict the future, I don’t know. I sound like I’m crazy.”

Oh. My. I can’t even talk, let alone form thoughts. What is happening between us? Only a few days ago I was devastated, thinking he wanted us to be just friends. Now he’s writing poetry about our blossoming sex life and looking at me like he wants to tear my clothes off and have his way with me on the table.

“Say you’re coming over tonight, Chels. Maybe we can do a few more things that’ll inspire me to write.” The grin is back, infectious and so cute I can’t help but smile back at him.

“Fine. I’ll come over.” I try to sound all put out, but we both know I’m the biggest liar ever.

I’m dying to go over to his house and spend time with him. Alone.

“You’ll be coming all night if you’re lucky,” he murmurs and I blink at him, shocked, yet not at his words.

“What did you say?” I want him to repeat it. Confirm that I really did hear that.

“Nothing.” He puts on an innocent look, one that is so full of it, I want to reach out and smack him. Then pull him in close to me and kiss him. “Can you help me with my English? I have a test tomorrow.”

How can I say no? After all, I’m still his tutor.

His girlfriend.

His rose.

His home.

Owen

I’m happy. The fucking happiest I’ve been in a long time, if ever. School is good. Football is good. I lightened my work schedule because holy shit, I couldn’t take how heavy it was. I need at least a couple of free hours during the week so I can freaking relax.

And I plan on spending every one of those free hours with Chelsea.

I’m home, kicking it on the couch watching TV with Wade and waiting for Chelsea to come over. She sent a text about fifteen minutes ago, letting me know she’d be over in a half hour and she was bringing dinner.

Considering my stomach is growling and I’m anxious as all hell to see her, I hope she gets here soon.

“Des said the two of you argued,” Wade says conversationally; his tone is light, but I know he’s digging for information.

“Yeah.” I shrug. I’ve got no major information to give. “It was no big deal. More like me telling him I’m sick of him mooching off of us.”

“He’s not a mooch and you know it, dude. He provides us with all the weed we could ever want, and sometimes he even brings beer. What more could we want from him?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like having a drug dealer always hanging out at my house,” I mutter, irritated I’m having this conversation again. “He fucking deals here, Wade. I won’t have it. Not anymore. And I already went over all this with Des. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”