Page 104 of Brazen Deceits

He shakes his head, dragging his finger through the slickness between my legs, inching from the back to the front, leaving a ghost of a circle around my clit, before pulling his hand out of my leggings, refusing my kiss. “Clara, I can’t.”

“You can’t fuck me?” I feel my anger rising, frustration and arousal needing a target.

He yanks my hair until I yelp, his eyes still dark, his slick hand circling my throat, the scent of my arousal filling my nostrils as his thumb rests against my jagged pulse. “No, Clara. I can’t be with someone who’ll jump into a fatal situation without a way out.”

His hand lingers there, not squeezing, but a threat all the same. And I’m so close to coming it’s not even funny.

“What if it’d been me stuck in that house?” I manage, fear and arousal making it nearly impossible to form words.

He searches me, his face grim.

Then he turns, releasing both my neck and the tension on my braid. Loose, I stumble away, tripping over my backpack, my hands catching me against the wall.

“We’re late,” he says, before marching out of the room, leaving me wet, smelling of my arousal, crumpled in the corner. He doesn’t even look back.

Fucking asshole.

Chapter 45

Clara

The cold virus snakes its way through the entire house.

Jansen is the first to fall, not even getting out of bed on Monday.

I’m next, barely making it through my shift at the coffee shop without passing out on the espresso machine.

Walker lasts until Tuesday, RJ until Wednesday, and Trips refuses to believe he’s sick until he’s shivering in bed Thursday afternoon, at which point, Jansen forces him to take some drugs and drink some weird herbal tea he’s sure will cure us all. In his defense, the teadoesmake my throat feel better, but it isn’t a cure-all by any measure.

Stumbling home from my last class of the week, the snow either melted or in nasty black piles on the side of the road, I trip over a box on the front porch.

Dragging it through the door, I collapse onto the pile of pillows in Jansen’s meditation space. The pillows absorb me,and the next thing I know, someone’s wrapped around me, hands entangled in mine. I blink slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dimness, night having fallen while I passed out a foot inside the door.

I twist around, coming face-to-face with Jansen. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey. I made you some tea.”

I press my nose against his chest, basking in his earthy, soapy scent. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty. You were out, but I’m going to need your help.”

I pull his forehead down until it’s pressed against mine. “How are you so goddamn healthy?”

He laughs, holding me tight against him. “I slept for three days straight, Clara. You tried to pretend you were only sick for one day.”

“It’s not fair,” I moan.

“At least you’re not as bad as Trips. Come on. Let’s get you tea.”

“Fine,” I say, letting him pull me to my feet.

We hold hands until he has me seated at the kitchen island before he pours me some of his sick tea. Jansen also reheats some of the dakjuk rice porridge Walker made, sliding the bowl of yummy get-well goodness in front of me. I love this guy.

My groggy brain sputters to a halt. That’s a big thought. Do I love him?

How would I know? I thought I was in love before.

Maybe it just felt like the right amount of time had passed to fall in love. Or maybe I had been in love, but I fell out again, one exacting cut at a time. Or maybe watching my parents’fucked-up relationship has forever skewed what love looks like in my mind.

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