Page 30 of Save the Game

“Did you just sniff me?” He asks, the left corner of his mouth tipped up in a partial smile.

“Sure did,” I admit, and he laughs. I close the door and lock it. Putting both hands on my waist, he pulls me to him and into a hug.

“Sniff away,” he says, and I inhale, audibly. His chest vibrates against mine with silent laughter.

I really do sniff him; tightening my arms around his back, I tuck my nose into his neck and breathe. It is, after all, my right to do so now that we are going steady. Luke rubs a hand up and down my spine and kisses my shoulder, through my shirt. He doesn’t step away, waiting for me to decide when I’m done. I give it a full minute before I let him go.

Instead of letting me go completely, he keeps one arm around my waist and pulled tight to his side. “So, what are we studying?”

“Lit,” I tell him, and lead him to my room.

I go to sit back down at my desk chair, turning it around so that I can face Luke, who’s standing in the center of the room and gazing around. He smiles at the poster of Sidney Crosby on my wall.

“Cute,” he tells me, and walks over to peek into my closet.

“Hey,” I protest, “no snooping.”

“Yes, snooping,” he replies, voice muffled as he walks further into the closet. “Where is your underwear drawer?”

I laugh. “You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

“Alas,” he sighs, stepping back into the room and coming to stand next to me at my desk. He hooks a finger in the pull on one of the drawers, but I block it with my hand before he can open it too far, “I do know that.”

Abandoning the desk drawers, he goes to sit on the bed, wiggling his eyebrows at me as he opens the nightstand drawer instead. I merely shake my head at him, amused, as he peeks inside. He hums, winking at me, and closes the drawer. He points to the bed.

“Do you mind?”

“Go for it,” I tell him, waving a hand. He kicks off his shoes and moves so his back is against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him. Crossing his arms, he looks at me.

“Sorry about not texting you back,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it was shitty. I was just…working through a few things in my head. That’s no excuse, though, so I’m sorry. And it won’t happen again,” he says, voice genuine.

“Okay,” I say, unsure of how to respond, “thanks.”

His eyes carve a slow path from mine, down my neck and chest until they reach my legs. His mouth pinches at the corners as though he’s trying not to laugh; it doesn’t matter, I can see it in his eyes anyway.

“You can say it,” I tell him.

“Those are hideous,” he explodes, doubling over in laughter. “I thought…I don’t know, I was picturing something nice, like SpongeBob and Patrick holding hands or something.”

“I know,” I agree, nodding. He points at my crotch.

“That’s not SpongeBob, that’s a demon.”

“I know,” I repeat, and hold up a finger as though I’m about to make an important point. “But remember, the selling point was the feel, not the print.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he says, waving me over.

Instead of scooting my desk chair over, I get up and walk to the other side of the bed, climbing on and sitting next to him. I gesture for him to give me his hand; he holds it, palm down, in the air between us. Wrapping my fingers loosely around his wrist, I bring his hand down to rest on my thigh and let him go. Just like I knew he would, he immediately does a rubbing motion, mischievous brown eyes on mine.

“Soft,” he whispers.

“Told you,” I whisper back.

Grinning, he leans over so that his shoulder is against mine; I notice he leaves his hand on my leg, thumb circling idly. There might as well be no fabric between us—I can feel the warmth of that hand so strongly he could be touching my skin. I wish he was. I wish I wasn’t so nervous about the possibility of a repeat performance of the other night to try.

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