Page 92 of Beyond the Lines
Declan Andrews.
I want him, and I’ve given up pretending I can forget about him.
At least until I’ve had him.
But as one of his hands drifts down, hesitating at the waistband of my jeans, I gasp, pulling away slightly. “Wait.”
Declan freezes immediately, his hand withdrawing from my jeans, his breathing ragged against my cheek. “Too much?”
“Not here,” I say, glancing around the dimly lit park. “It’s just—we’re kind of out in the open.”
His eyes search mine, darkened with desire but surprisingly lucid. “My place is a ten-minute walk. If you’re sure you want to do this?”
Another good question. The alcohol-induced haze is already starting to clear, and with it comes the reality of what I’m about to do. I’m about to have sex with Declan Andrews. The same guy who lied to me and humiliated me in life drawing class.
But also the same guy who fingered and mouth-fucked me in a bathroom. The same guy who just stopped Ben from adding me to his freshman conquest list. The same guy whose sketchbook had my face among the pages.
The guy I can’t seem to quit.
“Yes,” I say, because clarity doesn’t necessarily mean wisdom. “I want to.”
I glance back at the bench where Em still sits. I raise a hand to signal I’m leaving with Declan, and she gives me athumbs-up that somehow manages to be both enthusiastic and concerned, although it’s clear she’s happier with this outcome than my moves with Ben…
We walk in silence, his fingers laced through mine, the cold air finally cooling my overheated skin. My thoughts race as the remaining vodka creates a pleasant buzz rather than a total fog. This doesn’t feel like the impulsive hookup I was heading for with Ben.
It feels… weirdly significant.
Important, somehow.
God, I need to shut that train of thought down immediately.
When we reach the brick apartment building on the edge of campus, Declan unlocks the door and leads me up three flights of stairs. His apartment is small but surprisingly neat—clean dishes in the rack, books organized on shelves, and no piles of laundry anywhere.
Well, neat except for the art.
The walls are covered in artwork—some prints I recognize from museums, others are his own. A large drafting table sits by the window, littered with sketch paper and charcoal pencils. This isn’t a hockey player’s apartment.
This is an artist’s studio.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, unnecessarily.
“It’s nice.”
We stand there awkwardly, the heat of our earlier encounter still simmering under my skin but tempered now by nerves and the sobering walk. But it’s clear that there’s a ton of gunpowder inside both of us, and all it will take is one spark to set the whole thing off.
“So…” he says, shifting his weight.
“So,” I echo. “I want you. Just once.”
His eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. “Just once?”
“To get it out of our systems,” I clarify, the idea forming as I speak. “We clearly have this… thing between us. This attraction. And it’s making everything worse, for both of us. So we have sex, just once, and exorcize whateverthisis. Then we can go back to being art project partners and nothing more.”
Declan looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. But I’m pretty sure it’s disbelief, with a side of longing, and just a hint of regret. I can tell he’s chewing on something, not sure if he’s brave enough to utter the words, and with each passing second, I start to feel more like a fool.
“Let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You think if we have sex once, it’ll just… solve the problem? Make the attraction go away?”
When he puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous. But I’m committed now. “Yes,” I say firmly. “Like exposure therapy. Or… getting vaccinated against a disease.”
