Page 18 of Racing Hearts

He’s on his back, only wearing some shorts now since he insisted on stripping. I force my eyes to his face, not his body, and reach for his head, but he jerks away, still half asleep.

“Stop being a fucking brat,” I snap, pressing him back to the bed.

He groans, his eyes barely fluttering open in his feverish state. “Anders?” he slurs.

I search his face. “Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

“It’s hot,” he whines.

“I know, baby,” I murmur, dripping the water over his face. “Your fever will break soon, just sleep.”

“I hate being sick.” He whimpers, the sound piercing straight to my heart.

I nod. “Everyone does.”

“I want my mom.” He sighs, and I swallow, looking at him.

“You want me to call her?” I reach for his phone.

“Don’t bother, she won’t answer.” He laughs bitterly before it ends in a cough that has him curling up on his side. “No one would.”

My heart breaks a little.

He sighs and snuggles up around my arm, nodding off like a kitten while I’m left staring at him. Unlike when he’s awake, I let myself drink him in.

He really is beautiful, like a work of art. He’s all sharp edges and plush lips. The combination of his features shouldn’t work, but it does. My fingers drift across his face, feeling his soft skin before pressing against his parted lips. They are obscenely soft and so full they should be on a woman.

I remove my hand before I do something stupid again.

Brushing his hair back, I rub the silken strands between my fingers, knowing if he ever caught me, I’d kill him, but I can’t seem to resist.

“What are you doing to me, rich boy?” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer, and that’s for the best.

His fever breaks a few hours later, and once I’m sure he’s over the worst of it, I lay out his medicine and leave, making sure to write a message for him to lock his door. It’s the early hours of the morning, and I know I missed the race, not to mention put everything in jeopardy, just to look after a rich boy I hate—one I can’t seem to stay away from, even when I know I should.

Once I get home, I climb into bed, my fingers tracing my own lips as I remember the way his felt pressed against them. It was better than anything I’ve ever experienced.

Hating myself, I slide my hand down my chest and circle my hard length, recalling the way he tasted. I imagine the way his mouth would part for me then wrap around my cock.

My eyes close of their own accord, and I remember the way his stacked chest looked in his low-slung shorts. I visualize the way my hand would look tracing those muscles, his own soft ones reaching for me. His eyes are wide and bright, his lips parting for me as I press my cock into his mouth.

I have to bite back a moan as I tighten my fist, wishing it were him. Instead, I imagine him sucking me down. He’d fight me, tease me, and I jerk in my palm at the thought.

“Alek.” He moans around my length, my name on his lips. I lift my hips in my bed as I jerk my cock quicker, harder, and rougher. “Let me taste you. Let me feel you come.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I come with a muted bellow, spilling over my hand. My chest heaves as I squeeze my eyes shut, angry in the wake of the ebbing pleasure.

Disgust and hatred fill me as I lie in my bed, my own cum on my stomach.

I need to stay away from Evan Shaw. That much is clear.

NINE

It’s been two days since I’ve been at school, and my phone has been blowing up with texts from my friends and emails with assignments I need to catch up on. It keeps me busy but not busy enough that I don’t remember what happened the other night.

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