Chapter 20 Jacob
Jacob
“What the fuck is going on with you?”
Hughie’s question is a direct hit to my chest and I can’t even bring myself to look at him.
Not because I don’t trust him. I definitely trust him…but I am so fucking embarrassed.
Last night and this morning were both the hottest, most goddamn delicious moments of my life and the absolute most confusing.
And now I’m convinced it was a mistake.
It’s not that I don’t want it because I absolutely want it. It’s just that once you let your body do that thing with someone, and then your brain remembers it, and then your heart adds its own commentary track on top of that, you’re basically screwed for normal life ever again.
I don’t regret it because holy shit, being with Griffin was hot as fuck.
I have absolutely made out with and ground against men before.
I’ve just never….done more. Like touched a bare dick or pressed one to mine…
.hell, the idea of frotting was a foreign concept that was enticing.
Except now I know its way better than just fucking enticing and I want to do it again.
But I can’t do that because it was likely a bad idea in the first fucking place.
“Nothing,” I say, attempting to keep my voice natural. “I’m fine.”
Which is about as true as saying a tornado was “just a breeze.”
Hughie doesn’t press right away. That’s his thing. He waits. He lets the silence settle and make me uncomfortable until I just fucking explode. I won’t fucking do it this time.
Nope. No. I’m keeping my fucking lips slammed shut.
So when he finally leans in and whispers, “Something’s up,” it doesn’t feel like a question, it feels like an accusation.
I roll my eyes and lean back on my heels, giving him my best deadpan look. “Jesus, what are you, psychic now?”
“You didn’t come to breakfast,” he says, eyes narrowed like a fucking bloodhound on a scent. “You never skip breakfast. Not unless something’s wrong or you’re dead. And you’re not dead, which means-”
“I slept in,” I snap, cutting him off and giving him a half-assed shrug that I hope sells nonchalance. “Didn’t know that was a felony.”
He squints harder, “Jacob.”
I sigh. “Hughie.”
“You have a fucking hickey.”
My stomach nosedives.
I don’t even mean to react, but my hand goes up automatically, fingers brushing over the tender spot just under my jaw. My cheeks heat instantly like they’re trying to out themselves as accessories to a crime.
I try for a shrug again even though I know better than to continue attempting to lie to the fucking human lie detector. “So? Maybe I made out with someone. People do that, you know. Especially when they’re young and dumb and full of bad decisions.”
He stares at me, long and hard. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he goes through all the possible scenarios where I would have found some random to hook up with on the fucking road.
“If someone hurt you,” he says, voice low and serious, “I’ll kill them.”
There’s no irony in his tone. I honestly believe that Hughie wouldn’t hesitate to castrate someone if they hurt me. It warms my chest and Ib suddenly feel really fucking guilty for the lying.
I don’t fucking do this with Hughie. He’s my brother and my best friend and there’s never been a scenario where I have to lie to him. Not even a little white lie.
“No one hurt me,” I say softly, shaking my head and feeling that twist in my gut.
Because no, Griffin didn’t hurt me.
But I don’t know if this bruise on my neck is a souvenir from a good memory or the starting point of a heartbreak.
Because Griffin is so…amazing. He’s this golden boy and kind soul and funny spirit.
He’s hot as fuck and sweet as candy. He’s my ideal man and I know that starting anything with him is a fucking mistake waiting to happen because men like him don’t settle for guys like me.
So I say it again just so Hughie knows I’m being completely honest.
“No one hurt me.”
Hughie looks at me like he’s reading my fucking soul and deciding if he should tell me what he sees. And then, like he’s been holding a grenade this whole time, he lets it drop.
“Griffin wasn’t at breakfast either.”
I freeze.
Just for a second but that’s all Hughie needs to confirm his suspicions.
I don’t look at him. I stare at the ice pack in my hand and let the shame flood me.
He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, “Jake-”
“Stop.” My voice is sharper than I intended but I really, really, can’t hear him tell me that he was right. Or that I’m making a mistake. I don’t need to hear all the things he has to say because I already know them. “Seriously. I can’t. Not right now.”
He watches me, eyes dark and unreadable. He just nods once, slow and quiet, and I can still feel him watching as I turn away and start organizing ice packs like my fucking life depends on it.
We win.
The locker room is chaos, but whatever, they earned it. Hughie’s chirping Mack about that one ridiculous block, someone’s blasting EDM on a speaker that should’ve died five years ago, and I’m keeping myself busy packing up tape and trying not to look at Griffin.
Which is honestly a full-time job at this point.
Because I’m trying, okay?
Really fucking trying not to stare at him like he invented light and sin all in one golden retriever-shaped package.
I manage to avoid looking at him all through packing up and getting onto the bus. I don’t even glance up when he passes me down the aisle. We get back to the hotel, and I don’t talk to him or make eye contact or anything.
Because I have no idea what to say to him. And also because last night and this morning are still stamped behind my eyes like a goddamn brand.
I grab my room key and head to my floor with my eyes on my feet. I can’t even pinpoint why I feel like this. Hooking up is normal college culture and people go on with their lives like normal. I shouldn’t be the kind of guy who thinks about it constantly or obsesses over a one night stand.
I nearly groan at my internal thoughts as I exit the elevator and come to a dead stop.
Because fucking Griffin is standing in front of my hotel room door, leaning against the frame and watching me.
His eyes are locked on mine and his jaw is tense like he’s trying to stop the words from climbing up his throat. Before I can even process the fact that he’s standing directly in front of me, he’s pushing me back into the stairwell.
I blink once, and then he’s on me.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and wet and fucking wild, like he’s been holding back for too long and just snapped. There’s nothing sweet about it. It’s teeth and tongue and need…pure, reckless hunger.
He kisses like he wants to tear me open and crawl inside. Like he’s pissed off and turned on and doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. Our teeth clash hard enough to make my jaw ache, but I don’t care. I open up to him like I’m wired for it, like my body’s been waiting for this exact chaos.
My knees almost give out. My whole body goes slack for a second like the kiss shorted every fucking circuit. I grab his shirt and fist it tight, because if I don’t hold on, I might just slide to the fucking floor.
His hands are rough on my jaw, his fingers digging in and pulling me closer like he’s trying to fuse us together. I can feel the drag of his nails in my hair, the grit of his palm against my cheek.
It’s not gentle. It’s needy. It’s fucking filthy.
And Jesus Christ, I’m hard, rock solid in my jeans and pressing right up against him. I know he feels it. No way he doesn’t feel it, not with how tight our hips are grinding. I feel him too…thick, hard, straining against me, and it only makes it worse. Better.
Fuck, I don’t even know. I want more. I want all of it.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, lips spit-slick and swollen, foreheads almost touching.
His voice comes out rough and low, like he’s been chewing on the words for hours and they finally fought their way out. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
And fuck.
That sentence hits me harder than the kiss. My chest squeezes and my brain just blanks out for a second, static. I should say something to deflect this entire situation but I don’t.
I just look at him, heart slamming in my throat, and whisper, “Me either.”
It’s barely out of my mouth before he’s on me again, but this time it’s slower.
His hands slide into my hair, rough again, fingers gripping tight at the base of my skull. It makes my whole body shiver. Makes my breath catch embarrassingly loud. I lean into him, completely helpless under his touch, hips shifting to grind against the pressure building between us.
My hands roam his shoulders, his sides, the dip of his waist, and he’s so fucking warm under my palms. He’s firm and solid, so goddamn muscular.
We’re deep in it now, kissing like the world’s ending in five minutes and this is how we want to go out, when he finally pulls back again, panting, eyes dark and blown.
“I’m going to come to your room after dinner,” he says, voice hoarse. “So we can talk.”
“Yeah,” I nod, dumb and dizzy and horny as hell. “Okay.”
My brain’s spinning, throwing up warning signs left and right because this is going to get messy, complicated, and fucking dangerous but my heart? That dumb bastard? It feels lighter than it has in weeks.