Page 45 of We Can't Be Friends

“Better, not grand. My head properly feels like it was in a stampede.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“No.” He squeezes his eyes. “I, uh, did I say anything last night?”

“Not really.” Except that you are going to enjoy making me beg and then was the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen you.

“I threw up.” His blue eyes brighten, some of the haze lifting. “Your bed.” He shoots up. “Henry, I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new quilt.”

He’s looking around the bed we're in.

“Wasn’t this one.”

“Do I need to clean it up? Let me go clean it up.” He tries to get out of the bed. I lay my hand on his bicep.

“I already tossed it.”

“Thank you.” He groans. “That feels like the wrong words to say. Thanking you for tossing your own quilts and cleaning up after me. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

There’s an urge to snap, to tell him I don’t need anyone to take care of me. But I refrain.

“You could say thank you for watching you cry. You’re an ugly crier, Pretty Boy,” I joke through my serious tone. There’s truth in the statement, however. Cal wasn’t a graceful crier, but I chopped it up to his condition.

“Yeah? But you still think I’m pretty.”

“No.”

“Wasn’t a question.”

Tucker jumps from the bed. Cal’s hand that was stroking his fur lands on my chest.

My nipple pebbles under the thin material of my worn cotton shirt. The friction sends a tingle straight between my legs.

Callum shifts his hand—accidentally, he’s doing it accidentally, Chloe—and his palm adds the perfect amount of pressure to my breast.

“Sullivan,” I choke out.

“Mm,” he says sleepily.

“You are touching my boob.”

“Do you want to touch mine?”

“No.”

He slips his hand off me, but I see the smirk on his face that he was enjoying learning how sensitive and receptive I am tohistouch. He’s learned a lot about me recently, a friendship blossoming quickly between us.

An ease that doesn’t have me screaming inside or wanting to push him away. Instead, I want to pull him closer.

12

CALLUM

My head is heavy. My brain is foggy, but I don’t miss the way her chest rises or how her nipple peeks under my touch. I pack away the piece of information for a rainy day.

As I attempt to wade through the events of last night, a horrible thought passes through me.

“Did I try to have sex with you last night?” I ask her, needing confirmation.

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