Page 70 of Our Secrets and Scars

“Okay,” he says, slapping the mattress with purpose. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What is it?” I ask, looking back up at him.

His silver eyes are sparkling with intent and a hint of mischief. It makes me curious.

“It’s a surprise.”

I pout in response.

“Don’t give me that. If I tell you, you’ll find a reason not to do it.”

“That’s not true.”

He gives me a look that’s full of dubiousness and amusement. “Yes, it is. Go on, get up and get dressed into something you don’t mind getting messy. We’re gonna be getting dirty, baby.” He punctuates his sentence with a lewd wink, and I clap him around the head with my pillow before climbing out of bed to do as he says.

“Can I borrow a T-shirt or something then?”

Holden grabs the back of his tee, pulling it over his head and tossing it at me. I’m assaulted by the scent of him the moment I catch it. And it only grows stronger when I tug it over my head and let it swallow my slight frame, drowning me in white cotton and the smell of autumn leaves.

“It looks like a dress on you, little one.”

I peer down at where the hem of the shirt brushes against the top of my knees. “Guess I don’t need to bother with pants then.”

“Like fuck you don’t.”

He scowls at me from the bed as he leans against the headboard. The tautness of his abs is on full display now that he’s shirtless, and the inky drawings scribed across his abdomen ripple with every breath he takes.

He’s a walking piece of art, so beautiful I could stand and stare at him all day.

“Quit looking at me like that or I’ll think of something else we can do.”

Sucking my lip into my mouth and chewing it, I hold my gaze on his body for another heated moment before reluctantly pulling it away. “I can’t help that you’re pretty.”

“Pretty?” he scoffs. “Pretty ain’t the word you should be using to describe your boyfriend, Kinz. Ruggedly handsome, hot as sin, sexy, maybe. But notpretty.”

I freeze.

That word.

Boyfriend.

It’s the first time either of us has said something like that. Sure, it’s pretty clear that neither of us is seeing anyone else or even has the urge to. We spend most nights wrapped up in each other, and on the rare occasions that we don’t, we meet by the café on campus, where he buys me my pink coffee despite my pleading to pay for it myself for once. But never have we actually acknowledged what we are.

“Boyfriend?” I choke, staring down at my hands as they twist nervously together.

I hear the creak of the floorboards as Holden climbs out of bed and strides across the floor toward me. He stops only when we’re standing toe to toe.

Chest to chest.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

He knows what he’s doing by instigating physical touch. It lowers my defenses and makes me more receptive. He knows that the best way to get through to me is when I can feel him against me, even if it’s just a whisper of his breath or the slightest brush of his fingers down my arm.

“You’re freaking out,” he states, his voice as rich and smooth as my favorite dessert.

“No,” I deny, but the way I squeak the word is a clear giveaway.

“Does it scare you? That I’m your boyfriend?”

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