Page 67 of Intense
“Over this way,” Finn croaks from the bed.
I spin and dart into the bathroom, barely making it before I throw up the five thousand gallons of tequila we drank last night.
I don’t stop until my throat’s raw and my dignity’s in hell.
I run the cold tap, splash my face, and steal some of his toothpaste. Looking in the mirror, I see the mess that’s my face. I wipe the smeared eyeliner so I don’t look like a panda and drag my fingers through my tangled hair.
Good enough.
When I open the door, he’s still sprawled in bed, one arm behind his head, watching me like I’m a show.
“Why don’t you look like shit?” I rasp.
He laughs, but it turns into a cough.
“I don’t know. Because I feel like it.”
My eyes scan the tattoos. He’s shirtless. Inked to the gods. Broad as hell.
Wait.
Wait.
“Finn,” I say warily.
“Yes?”
“Did we fuck?”
He lifts the blanket, glances down.
“Uh, no. I’m still in my boxers. You got your red lace panties on?” he says with a mocking tone.
My heart skips into panic mode.
“Yeah. But that doesn’t mean…”
“Stephanie,” he cuts in, smirking. “You’d know, drunk or not, if I’d fucked you. You’d be covered in cuts and bruises. You wouldn’t be able to walk. And you sure as hell wouldn’t be questioning it. Because you’d feel it. I’d still be dripping down your thighs. So no, we did not have sex.”
I grip the doorframe to stop myself from collapsing.
“Jesus,” I hiss.
That’s... vivid. Cuts? What the hell is he into? And why does that burn me from the inside out? The pain, the trust. Fuck, that would be exceptional.
“So I just crashed in bed with you?”
“Yeah,” he says casually, sitting up and stretching, revealing abs and arms I didn’t need to see.
“But,” he adds, “you might wanna sit down.”
My stomach coils.
“Why?”
He motions me over with one finger. And like the moron I am, I obey—sitting at the edge of the bed.
“Give me your left hand.”
