Page 45 of The Hearts We Fumble
I shove myself up, detangling her legs from around me and pushing off the bed.
Wyatt’s hands slap down onto the mattress, her frustrated huff filling the space between us. “What the hell was that, Zane?” she snaps, her voice edged with disbelief. “You’re just gonna do all that and then take off? Again! Are you kidding me?”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I reach for my zipper, lowering it just enough to adjust myself, shifting my dick until it’s pressed flush against my stomach. Her mouth parts, her gaze locked on my hands, and she looks like she’s seconds from losing her mind.
It only makes me smirk.
Reaching down, I grip her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze as I lean in, my lips brushing her ear.
“Sweet dreams, firecracker,” I murmur, my voice thick with amusement. “Of me, I hope.”
She groans, rolling onto her back, muttering something under her breath that sounds a lot like a curse.
I chuckle as I pull on my boots, already knowing I’ll be spending the rest of the night dealing with the throbbing ache she left me with. But I don’t mind.
Just as I step through her doorway, her voice follows me—exasperated, frustrated, and sharp.
“I hate you!”
I grin to myself. Yeah, firecracker.
Keep telling yourself that.
Chapter Eleven
Wyatt
I wish I could say Zane didn’t affect me. That after he stormed out of my room, slamming the front door behind him, I rolled over and went to sleep like it didn’t matter.
Except that would be a lie.
Instead, I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my body thrumming with frustration. Five minutes passed—five long, excruciating minutes—before I finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back.
So I took matters into my own hands.
Reaching into my nightstand, I pulled out my vibrator, my fingers trembling slightly as I switched it on. The moment it pressed against me, I bit down on my lip, squeezing my eyes shut. It wasn’t the toy I wanted. It wasn’t my own hands I craved.
It was him.
His mouth on me. His hands pinning my hips down. His voice rasping in my ear, telling me how much he wanted to ruin me.
His scent still lingered in my sheets, and between that and the pent-up tension he’d left me with, it took no time at all before I shattered, back arching, his name caught on my lips.
When the group text came through the next day—an invite to Colter’s for a postgame celebration—I should’ve ignored it. I should’ve stayed in and tackled the mountain of homework I’d barely started.
But the second I saw Zane’s name in the thread, his three-word reply confirming he’d be there, I was up from my desk. No hesitation.
Homework and responsibilities forgotten as I rushed to the shower, standing under the hot water longer than necessary, like it could rinse away the memory of last night.
I told myself I was dressing casual—just a crop-top hoodie, distressed denim jeans, and my fleece booties—but the truth was, I still reached for my curling iron, running it through a few strands of hair. I still did my makeup, keeping it subtle but just enough to highlight my eyes.
I didn’t text him.
I thought about it—debated asking if he wanted to give me a ride—but I knew better.
If he hadn’t reached out first, it meant he wasn’t going to. And maybe that was a good thing.
