Page 49 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

My fingers drag along the denim fabric, toying with the button, my stomach pooling with warmth. Theo’s gaze drops to my fingers. Watching. Waiting. His molars grind as he digs his fingers into his thighs. Like he wants to reach for me. To touch me. To make me stop. To make me keep going.

I drag my finger in a circular motion over the button, playing with it for one more second just to see if his eyes can darken a shade further than they already are. His lips part, and his breathing turns shallow. But he doesn’t move. He just…waits. To see if I’ll push him any further, and fuck, do I want to push him further. I grasp the heavy material between my thumb and forefinger, ready to undo the button when––

“Blake,” Burrows murmurs beside me.

I drop my hands to my sides.

He’s right. What the hell am I doing? Giving the entire hockey team a strip tease?

Snap. The hell. Out of it.

“Good game, Theo,” I tell him.

I strut toward the house, leaving my shirt on the stupid ground while ignoring the stares from everyone at the party.

As I slip past Theo, who still hasn’t bothered to move a muscle, Burrows murmurs, “Come on. Let me take you to my room.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” I return.

And it does.

Because I’m desperate. To erase Theo’s harsh words and the way he lied to me about giving me a real chance to be his friend. The way he lied when he promised to let me do my own thing. The way I actually believed him.

I’m a fool.

16

THEO

Throwing on my T-shirt, I pour myself a drink, and stare at the door to the basement as if it’s offended me. I didn’t want to throw a party tonight, but when you’re known for being the party guy, certain expectations are harder to break than I’d like to admit. And having a party every Friday night at the Taylor House is one of them.

Pretty sure I should get a reward for that shit. But what do I know?

“Hey, Theo,” Missy purrs, dragging her hand along my bare arm.

I can’t believe she dared me to take off my shirt during the game. I can’t believe I actually listened. Now, she has the wrong idea about us, which is the last thing I need. She’s one of the newer puck bunnies who likes to come around. I haven’t slept with her, though. I do have some standards.

Or at least, it’s what I tell myself.

Thanks to Blake’s observation about my love life the other night, it’s been harder for me to talk to women, let alone sleep with them. Not that I’ve slept with anyone since I kissed Blake a few months ago, but it’s beside the point.

The point is, I shouldn’t have taken the bait during the game. I shouldn’t have taken off my shirt just to see if Blake’s eyes would flair with jealousy. They did, but that’s beside the point too. I should’ve never agreed to Strip Pong. I should’ve never allowed them to start the game in the first place. I should’ve never thrown this party or agreed to look at Blake like she’s a friend when she’s still very clearly my best friend’s little sister.

But the cherry on top of my clusterfuck? I should’ve never seen Blake in a white, lacy bra. Or let her disappear with Burrows downstairs––where his bedroom is––five minutes ago.

Five. Fucking. Minutes. And as the seconds slowly tick by, I’m driven more and more insane.

My attention darts to the door leading to the basement for the hundredth time.

“So, do you wanna dance?” Missy asks, pressing her tits to my arm.

No. I don’t want to dance. I want to see if Burrows and Blake are still holed up in his room. I want to see if he’s kissing her or if she finally realized he isn’t the guy for her. I want Missy to realize I’m not interested instead of pawing at my arm like a bitch in heat.

Yeah, I want a lot of things.

And none of them are on the main floor.

“Come on,” Missy prods. “We should dance.”

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