Claire

Jaxon Bennett is in my bedroom. He’s in my bedroom and I can’t even look at him for more than a few seconds without feeling a warm flush of heat wash over me because all I can think about is the fact that I can still feel his hand between my legs. His finger stroking inside me. His thumb...

At this rate I’m going to come myself into a quivering puddle, just sitting here, looking at him in three-second increments.

“Are you sure you want me here?”

I catch my lower lip between my teeth and risk another glance. He’s wearing loose jeans and a collared shirt I’ve never seen him wear before. He showered. Shaved. Smells downright delicious—watermelons again and something else I can’t put my finger on. Something that must be unique to him because whatever it is, I can’t take a breath around him without feeling faint.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in a pair of my father’s cast-off PJs, my hair thrown into a lumpy ponytail, smelling like stale beer and nervous sweat.

Life is decidedly unfair.

He’s staring at me. Because he asked me a question. A real question. One he expects an answer to.

Are you sure you want me here?

“Yes.” The word comes out on a wobbly squeak. I clear my throat as quietly I can and try again. “Yes.”

Better but still pathetically embarrassing.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watch him wander around my room, lifting books to read their spines. Leaning in to look at the pictures tacked on my cork board. Dragging his finger down the row of Blu-rays on my shelf.

Having him here makes me see how juvenile it all is. Pale blue walls. White eyelet comforter. Stuffed animals. Shelves stuffed with books and movies. The N’Sync poster I hung when I was ten and never took down because Justin Timberlake.

I feel like a kid. He makes me feel like a kid.

“How old are you?” I blurt it out. It’s a stupid question. We went to high school together. I logically know he can’t be that much older than me, but there’s always been something about him that has seemed almost weary. Road-worn and battle-tested. Like he’s lived through fifty lifetimes and remembers them all.

“I turned twenty a few months ago,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder. “You turned eighteen May 5th.”

I look at him, shaking my head. “How did you—”

“Your friends used to tape balloons to your locker at school every year.” He gives me the smile. The one that ties me in knots and makes me wonder what he’s thinking. “Don’t worry, I’m observant. Not a stalker.”

“I never...” I shake my head, my tongue tripping over my teeth in an effort to get the words out. “I never thought...” If anything I’m the stalker. How many times have I done his family’s laundry in the name of helping out, just so I have an excuse to touch his clothes?

Too many to be considered normal.

“And they aren’t my friends—not really.” I feel my brow crumple, embarrassed for some reason. “They’re Bri’s. I’m just—”

“Along for the ride?”

“Yeah, something like that.” I laugh. Making fun of myself is something I can do. Something I’m good at. “I’m not popular. I’m more like, popular by proxy... if not for my sister, I’d be invisible.”

“I see you just fine.” He turns away from my movie shelf and faces me head on. “And I couldn’t pick your sister out of a line-up.”

Oh, boy.

It doesn’t matter that he’s already kissed me. It doesn’t matter where his hands were ten minutes ago. I’m alone in my room with Jaxon Bennett, and he’s looking at me like he wants... something. Something that only I can give him. This is the culmination of every late night, lock-the-door-and-touch-yourself fantasy I’ve ever had. So naturally, I have to screw it up.

“Are you... I mean, are we going to—”

Holy shit, Claire. Stop talking.

Because I never seem to listen to myself, I keep rambling.

“Is something going to happen here? Between you and me? Are you here to—”

He gives me the smile again. “Am I here to pop your cherry?”

Oh, my god. Don’t pass out.

I nod.

“No.” He turns away from me again, this time toward my bedroom door. For a crazy, hot second, I think he’s decided that hacking his way through my bumbling ridiculousness isn’t worth the effort. I think he’s going to leave. I contemplate throwing myself in front of the door. How long can I keep him here against his will before it’s considered kidnapping in the state of Illinois?

He doesn’t leave.

“I’m just here, Claire.” He reaches for the knob and very slowly, very deliberately, turns the lock. “We’ll do whatever you feel ready for. Whatever you want.”

“I want—”

You.

This.

Whatever this is.

Whatever you want.

The rest of it gets stuck in my stupid throat, and it’s either stop talking or choke to death. Bri lost her virginity years ago. Why is this so hard for me?

Because you aren’t Bri.

Not even close.