Page 37 of Beautifully Conflicted

Why does that make me feel like an ass?

We barely know each other. We haven’t even had one conversation that doesn’t end with us snipping or worse. Yet, given the way those bottomless brown eyes blink in rapid succession, it’s evident he expected a different answer.

But there isn’t a different answer.

There can’t be.

Aside from hardly knowing him, I’m not gay. Ican’tbe gay. And even if Damien’s right about me convincing myself I hate him, that’s not to cover up loving him. That’s to keep him away from me. To protect myself from discovering something devastating.

Love isn’t even a factor.

By some miracle, this awkward exchange has made my cock deflate. And a discreet glance below his waist tells me the same is true for Damien.

“We better finish this run before Coach tacks on even more miles,” I say, my voice barely projecting over the distance between us.

A subtle nod is the only indication Damien heard me, and this time when we resume our workout, it’s in total silence.

I hate that I hate that.

Damien

The rest of practice is a blur. I don’t remember anything, except for the part about Bennet eyeing me suspiciously. And while I’m pretty sure that was nothing more than pity, I didn’t acknowledge it. I just kept my head down and finished my workout, bolting without even taking the time to clean up afterward.

I couldn’t face the shower, knowing I’d run into him if I did. Especially not after what happened there. Themy hand on his dick, debacle.

I’m not sure I have the restraint necessary to see him naked again, with beads of water rolling down chiseled, lean muscle… Nope. Not one bit.

That shower was the single greatest moment of my life, and it hurt that he freaked out afterward, but I understood that. At least I thought I did, considering he tries so hard to convince himself he’s not gayandthat he hates me, both of which I proved wrong by now.

A little panic after your first gay escapade makes sense, but I figured after a few days he’d realize he doesn’t hate me.

Maybe insinuating that heloves me, was a stretch, but those were Liam’s words, not mine. I know now I should’ve substituted it with lust, or even like, but the conviction in his eyes when he said he didn’tlove me gave the distinct impression that he doesn’t have any feelings for me at all.

Like…at all.

And I really thought he did. At least a little bit.

My dick certainly thought so.

I mean, why let someone stroke your cock if you don’t like them?

Getting home, I head straight for the shower, hoping to erase the funk surrounding me. And I don’t mean sweat either, I mean the heaviness that’s weighed me down since that run, and the revelation of Bennet’s harsh truth.

He’s never minced words, never sugar-coated anything, so I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t have any feelings for me when he’s been telling me all along he’s not gay.

I really did think he was in denial though. There have been a whole lot of signs to consider. There’s the way his eyes always seem to seek me out when he walks into the lecture hall at practice. And how they roll way too far back in his head when he’s complaining about the things I say, almost as if he’s taking extra care to look annoyed so no one can accuse him of being amused.

Clearly, I was wrong.

My dad warned me about this. He always says I need to read the room since I have a tendency to miss the subtle cues people give off. When it comes to Bennet, I’m sure that’s especially true since I barely understand why I set him off. It doesn’t stop me from reveling in it though, since he’s so gorgeous when he’s angry.

I suppose that means I need to let go of the idea that I could ever be anything more than a nuisance to him. Which sucks since he’s a major part of the reason I came here, and now I’m going to be stuck seeing what I can’t have every day.

Deep down, I knew that was the risk I was taking by transferring here, but I genuinely thought I could win him over with time. I thought I’d succeeded after that shower, when he got hard again today, but apparently, it’s not me that turns him on, it’s the idea of shutting me up he gets excited about.

Wait, does that mean if I’m quiet he’ll like me?

I briefly consider this as I rinse the soap off my body, fingers grazing over the semi that seems to want to relive its introduction to Bennet’s, but I quickly dismiss that as one of those cues I’m not reading right. Or wishful thinking.

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