Page 9

But he doesn’t stop. The pad of his finger moves against my tongue. He tastes like vanilla lotion. Chemical sweet. He strokes my tongue slowly, sliding out almost entirely before pushing back in, and my pulse jumps down into my stomach.

It’s erotic as hell. All I can hear is my own heartbeat and his labored breathing.

I close my lips around it and suck back until his knuckle hits the roof of my mouth.

We have five minutes, and “Crowd” Ira can suffer in fucking silence.

His other hand moves to my jaw, cupping it like he’s holding fine china. I tilt my head back to give him better access, and his thumb slides deeper, curling against the very back of my tongue. Almost at my throat.

He’s not wearing cologne or anything I can smell other than the lotion.

I’m still trying to figure this shit out, even while I’m letting someone finger-fuck my mouth.

His windbreaker creaks when he moves closer. My knee bumps his leg, but I can’t tell where. I drag my teeth lightly over his knuckle just to feel him shiver, and his hand tightens on my jaw.

Then his thumb is gone, wet against the side of my mouth when he smears my spit over my parted lips.

Which sucks.

I was having fun with our game-inside-a-game.

“Damn,” he whispers.

I know that voice.

Oh my god, I know exactly who this is!

Excitement rings through my entire body.

“Beckett!” I shout.

My group from the TV room starts screaming again. I hear dude-with-smiley-face-keychain hollering my name and something else I can’t make out. They’re clapping so loud it’s like they’re in here with us.

But Beckett hasn’t said a word.

I pull down my blindfold over my neck and look up at him. He hasn’t moved a muscle, one hand floating right next to my jaw. His face is the same shade as his curly hair: red. Bright red.

Then he rips off the blindfold and stares at me like I’m sprouting horns and a tail.

“I—I didn’t know it was you,” he whispers quickly. His hands zip back to his sides. “I swear, Ira, if I did, I wouldn’t have—”

I tilt my head. “Wouldn’t have… what?”

I don’t see what the big deal is.

Roommates do weird stuff all the time. It’s all part of the “college experience,” as my uncle told me last September. “Shit happens. Sometimes drunk. Sometimes sober. You man up, laugh about it, and move on.”

That became my life motto.

But Beckett just short-circuits and storms out of the kitchen, like I offended his entire bloodline by having some fun.

Who knows?

At least I got the point.

After the game ends and our groups merge, Beckett won’t get within two feet of me.

So naturally, I spend twenty minutes following him around.