Page 91 of Broken Pieces
“I’m fine on the couch.”
His jaw flexes. “It wasn’t a fucking suggestion, Sky.”
“Why do you care where I sleep?”
“Because that couch will fuck your back up worse than I ever could.”
My breath stutters, but I can’t pull my eyes off him. I shift without meaning to.
His eyes watch me.
Tracking the way my chest lifts. The way I swallow like it might kill me.
Every inch of me burns.
I try to mask it, force my body still, but the damage is already done.
I hold his stare. “Then take the bed.”
“I don’t need it,” he says.
“You think I do?”
He steps forward. Not enough to touch me, but enough that I feel it.
That shift in the air, the heat that spikes between us.
“You’re exhausted,” he says. “Don’t pretend you’re not.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
His jaw ticks, and I can see that I’m getting to him.
“Just take the fucking bed, Skylar.”
He holds the stare for one breath too long. Before turning and walking out the door.
The mattress dips beneath me as I sit cross-legged on top of the blanket, pages of math homework stretched out across my thighs.
Calculus.
Useless numbers swimming in and out of focus. What the hell is the point of solving X when I can’t solve where I’ll be sleeping tomorrow night? I’ve got no address. No plan. School ends, and then what the fuck do I do?
My thoughts splinter. Algebra fades. The lines on the page blur.
I haven’t solved a single problem in fifteen minutes. Maybe longer.
Not since Zane stepped into the shower and took every rational thought with him.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
But I am.
Zane.
Naked under that stream.
Hands dragging through his hair. Head tipped back. Water pouring over every inch of him. Soap gliding over the ridges of his stomach. Steam curling around his chest. His skin slick, veins flexing with every movement.
