Chapter 6 #4
I kiss him harder. Because I don’t know what else to do.
Because I want to drown this feeling before it gets too real. It’s too much. The way his hand fists my shirt. The way he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he wants more.
The way he moves against me, confident and slow and... shit.
Shit. No.
Fuck. My body absolutely betrays me.
I freeze.
Gio doesn’t notice. I break the kiss. He breathes out slowly, dazed.
He leans in again. Instinctively.
Like something in him’s being pulled back to me. Like my mouth is gravity. He quickly steps back. I flinch, just slightly. His eyes open. Confused.
"What—?"
"I’m—" I swallow. "Just give me a second."
I step away too fast. I lock the bathroom door like Gio’s about to bust through it and finish what we started.
He’s not. Obviously. But my hands are still shaking, my lips are still wet, and... I’m hard.
So hard I can barely think.
I stare down at myself, horrified.
"No, no, no, no, no," I whisper, pacing, one hand clutching my hair, the other hovering awkwardly near my waistband like that’s going to help.
"What the fuck."
I’m pretty sure this wasn’t supposed to happen.
This was a kiss. A fake kiss. With a guy.
A stupid plan to make someone jealous. And now I’m in Gio freaking Fontana’s bathroom with a fucking boner from hell.
It hurts. It actually, physically hurts. My pants are suffocating me. I sit on the closed toilet lid and bury my face in my hands, trying not to scream.
This is bad. This is so bad.
"Okay," I whisper to myself, "let’s think about literally anything else."
I press my fists to my forehead and start listing the dumbest things I can think of.
"Turtles wearing hats. My grandma’s meatloaf. That one time I fell into a bush during soccer practice. Uh, taxes. Boring taxes. Unpaid taxes. My professor’s eyebrows. The weird sound the fridge makes when it’s mad."
I snort.
Fuck. It’s not working.
Because every few seconds, without warning, my brain flashes right back to him. To Gio’s hands on my face, that fucking lip ring pressing into me, the soft moan he made when I kissed him back.
I groan and squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing them like that’ll somehow erase the memory.
Nope. Stop.
You’re not into guys. You’re not. You’re into girls. You’ve always been into girls. This is just... the body reacting.
Right? I mean, I had my eyes closed. That’s a thing.
That counts. That could’ve been anyone. Technically. It’s just the kiss that does it.
That’s it. The contact. The friction. The heat.
I slap my hand against my mouth and exhale hard.
Jesus Christ. I can’t stay in here forever. I can’t go out there either. I’m stuck between erection and existential crisis. I grip the edge of the sink and look up at myself in the mirror.
My face is red. My lips are visibly swollen.
I look like someone who’s been kissed stupid.
Because I have. By Gio Fontana. And apparently, I liked it. God help me, I wanted it.
Even though he’s a man. A MAN.
I want to cry and throw up at the same time.
I lean my forehead against the mirror. I am so, so fucked.
"Rava?"
I spin toward the door.
Christ. It feels like he’s calling my name the same way my assignments do. The ones that are impossible to ignore.
"...yeah?"
"You alive? I’m bored. I don’t like talking to my bathroom door."
I drag a hand through my hair. It calms me.
Okay. I’m not that hard anymore. Thank God. I breathe out, step to the door, and crack it open slowly. I look down.
He’s sitting on the floor with his knees up.
Back against the wall. He lifts a hand toward me.
"Help me up?"
I give him mine, stupid mistake. Because instead of pulling himself up, he yanks me down. Right in front of him.
Our knees touch. I don’t even have the energy to fight him. I just settle on the floor like a defeated houseplant.
I stare at literally everything that is not his face.
The wall. The floor. My own knees. I bite my lip from nerves, and I refuse, REFUSE to look at his. Which is insane, because I can still feel them on mine.
"Um, the fact you ran straight into the bathroom," he says, "means we’ve got work to do." He leans his elbow on his knee, tilting his head toward me. "And lucky for you?" He smirks. "I’ve got time today."
"Why are we sitting on the floor?" I mutter.
"It makes it less awkward."
"What?"
"Don’t talk," he cuts in. "Just listen."
Before I can react, his hands wrap around my calves and he drags me closer. Too close, actually.
He settles back on his hands, legs open, and I end up right between them.
Face to face. Almost nose to nose.
I’m going to literally drop dead from tachycardia at twenty-two. There’s no way this is medically safe.
"If you want this fake-couple shit to work," he says calmly, "so your little ex gets jealous?" He tilts his head, keeping his eyes glued on me. "Then you need to get used to me."
My skin burns. Everywhere.
"You need to be this close without running to the bathroom every five minutes," he adds. "Otherwise we’re both gonna look stupid."
Unfortunately... he’s right.
And I hate that he’s right. And I hate that it makes sense.
I nod once. He grabs my waist, and pulls me even closer. Right between his legs.
He leans forward slowly. Our noses almost touch.
He’s calm. I don’t know how. He’s calm like this is nothing.
Me? I’m seconds away from evaporating. His voice drops. "We’re gonna do exactly what I say," he murmurs, "until you can look at me without turning pale like you’re being held hostage."
I swallow. Hard. He smirks because he hears it. Then he lifts his chin just a little, eyes locked on mine.
"Stare at me."
My breath catches.
"Prove it," he says, leaning in until our lips are a breath apart. "Prove you’re not the weak little kid anymore."
I look at him even though it’s killing me.
He hit a nerve. A deep one.
Fine. He wants proof? He’ll get it. I lock my eyes on his, and I refuse to look away. My jaw tightens. I stare back.
He lifts a brow, impressed. "Good... don’t look away."
I don’t. Not for a second. I won’t let him win. I won’t let her win either.
I force my body to relax, even though every bone in me is vibrating. I lean forward, closing the space he leaves between us.
He notices immediately. "See?" he murmurs.
"You’re already better."
Yeah... no. Disagree. My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs. It probably thinks I’m being chased by a wild animal.
And okay, same energy. Looking at Gio does feel like that. Like survival mode.
He tilts his head a tiny bit. "If you break eye contact first..." he smirks, "...we start over."
I swallow so loud it’s embarrassing. His gaze drops fast to my mouth. Then jumps right back to my eyes.
"Gio—"
"Shut it." His voice drops to a low command. "Eyes on me."
I’m gonna die. Literally.
Any second now. I keep staring. My palms are sweating. This is torture.
He smiles, satisfied. "Such an obedient boy."
I need to stop. I NEED to stop.
He knows. He KNOWS I respond to praise, that my pulse goes insane when someone throws a single approving word at me. He’s one of those who planted that into me.
He made me crave approval.
He mocked me for being sensitive. He’s the one who taught me to flinch and then laugh it off. He put the weakness there. He sowed it. He watered it. He made it grow.
And now he’s trying to fix the same wounds he created. Like he’s some kind of antidote to his own poison.
It’s twisted. It’s wrong. It’s sick.
It’s working. "...Why are you helping me?"
Gio exhales through his nose. "I don’t know," he says.
"Maybe because what she did was pure bullshit. And I don’t like when people get played like that."
A laugh slips out of me. "Kinda ironic coming from you," I mutter. "Considering you spent your whole childhood making fun of me."
He tilts his head. "What makes you think I haven’t changed?" He speaks softly. "Maybe I’m trying to be a better person now."
I look down, because eye contact feels like stepping in front of a train.
I reach for a loose thread on his pants.
And instantly yank my hand back when I realize I’m touching him. "...Okay." I clear my throat. "Thanks, then."
He rises to his full height.
His shadow hits me before his voice does.
"Last step," he says. "How would you touch me if we were actually a couple?"
My brain empties. "I... I don’t know."
Heat crawls up my neck, because the truth is humiliating.
I’ve never been good at touching. Never been told it was wanted. Never been encouraged to do it more. Because of her.
I swallow. "I’d... hold your hand?"
He laughs. "That’s it?" His eyebrow arches. "That’s all you did in your relationship?"
I feel something ugly twist in my chest.
Yeah. Laugh. Go ahead.
You don’t know what it feels like to be with someone who never wants you touching them.
He steps closer.
"What would you do?" I ask quietly.
"What wouldn’t I do is the question." His eyes drag down my chest, then climb back up. "If I liked you enough to be with you," he murmurs, "I’d touch you everywhere. Not just your hand."
He leans in, brushing the corner of my mouth. "And lucky for you... Ravioli," he grins, "...she wanted my touch."
My stomach drops. "So she’s gonna break when she sees it on you. I’m guessing you know I’ll have to touch you when she’s watching."
I nod before my brain can catch up.
"Good." He smiles a little. "I’ll leave what kind of touching for a surprise. You can go now," he says.
"Unless you want to stay." He leans in. Crowds my space again. "There’s room in the bathtub."
Jesus Christ. "Gio, no." I slip out past him for the second time today and make it all the way to the entryway.
He follows me, and his hand slides into my hair. Fixing it. He smooths out the front strands, tucks one behind my ear, and steps back. "Don’t want your dad suspecting anything," he says with a shrug. "He’ll kill us both before the big show."
Oh my God. My dad.
Reality hits me like a truck. A few hours ago, I told that man, "Don’t worry. Don’t stress. It’s just work."