Twice more— that was the answer. I could handle being fucked by Sebastian Slate two more times before my body begged for mercy, and I collapsed into a sleepy stupor on the bed. Sebastian cleaned me up, then himself, then pulled me up against him in a way so delicate that it feels impossible that this was the same man who practically pounded himself into me earlier. I find myself wary to let myself cuddle so close to him; when we were having sex, everything felt so direct and erotic and unabashed. Now that we’re both exhausted, though, and the first hints of dawn are showing through the blinds, it all feels very…intimate. It throws me.

It doesn’t, however, seem to throw Sebastian. He holds me against him like we’ve known each other for years— hell, like we know each other, period. I wonder if this is just how he is, or if he really does think I’m as great as he said I was while we were in bed together. He doesn’t know who I am, of course— who I am in relation to the woman who his father is suspected of killing. I suspect he wouldn’t think I’m nearly so great if he did, no matter how good our sex is.

And, just like that, I feel badly again. I just let Sebastian Slate do wild, insane things to me, and begged for more the entire time. What’s wrong with me? After what Dennis Slate did to my family…

“Are you cold?” Sebastian asks when I press tighter to him.

“Hm? Oh— a little,” I lie, uninteresting in admitting that I was huddling closer for comfort, of all things.

Sebastian reaches down and pulls more of the blanket up and over my body. Even though it wasn’t warmth I was after, it does seem to help, and I take a long, steadying breath. I need to tell him who I am. He should know— and frankly, I want him to know. He ought to know that I’m part of the family his father ruined, that there are real, personal stakes involved with his father’s trial. I’m not entirely sure how to open this box, though, so I clumsily start with, “I’m pre-law.”

“I know,” Sebastian says.

“Really?”

“I make it a point to learn about people who interest me,” Sebastian says with a tone of amusement.

I pause, wary. “What else do you know?”

Sebastian takes a deep breath. “Let’s see— pre-law, from Alabama, freshman, lover of studying in the library, member of the student advocacy group, former marching band member. That’s all I’ve got so far from my sources.”

“That’s it?”

Sebastian cranes his head down to look at me. “Is there something else I should know?” he asks. “Because I had my guys look into any old boyfriends back in Alabama, and they didn’t find anything.”

I laugh in a somewhat unladylike way. “Your guys?”

“My guys,” Sebastian says, and takes hold of my waist, pulling me closer. “If there is an old boyfriend, you know that I’m not giving you back to him, right?”

I roll my eyes at this statement, but there’s a sparkle in Sebastian’s gaze that makes me know he’s simultaneously joking and serious— he isn’t interested in sharing me, but he knows I’m not a gift to be given back and forth either. And…and he feels like I’m his. Like he’s mine. There’s something possessive and connected in his gaze, a look no guy has ever laid upon me.

“What about you? What’s your major, other than football?” I ask, feeling my willpower crumble underneath his gaze. He makes me want to give in, to kiss him, to stretch my body out so he can see it all.

“Education,” Sebastian says. “So if I blow a knee or something, I can still coach high school ball.”

“So it’s football in the end, no matter what?”

“No matter what,” Sebastian says. “If you knew my family, you’d understand. It’s been football no matter what since my brothers and I were kids. They all play ball too— Conor and Tyson—“

“…are quarterbacks at their colleges. I’m not totally clueless,” I say, prodding him. “Or at least, my roommates aren’t. They told me.”

Sebastian slides his hands down my back and under my ass, then spanks me playfully. “See? You have guys doing recon on me too. What else do you know about me, Ashlyn?”

“Only a little,” I say. I lie. That was a lie— you know way more than a little, I think to myself, but his hands feel so nice on me that I can’t bring myself to correct my words.

“Such as…” Sebastian says.

“Uh—“ What do I say? This is my chance, the perfect moment to tell him who I am, the “in” I needed—

“Ah, there it is,” Sebastian says, voice falling. “So you do know the rumors about my father, don’t you?” His voice is both serious and disappointed— though I’m not sure if he’s disappointed I know about Dennis Slate, or that I didn’t tell him directly.

“Yes,” I admit. “I know the…rumors.” They’re hardly rumors. They’re facts. I can feel the courage to say this brewing in me, but Sebastian releases me at that exact moment. Cold sweeps into the spots where his skin was pressed to mine, and I clamber back toward him. He’s stiffened, though, and doesn’t take me into his arms.

“Well, go ahead. Ask me. Ask me if he did it. If he killed that woman, if he’s evil, if I ever met her…go for it,” he says with a long exhale. His voice is so flat, and his face has gone still and papery. He expects me to ask. He’s ready. He’s prepared. And of course he is— I’ve been there. I had so many routines down for when people asked me about my aunt, a series of quotes and lines that kept my heart safe while giving them the gossip they craved. Yes, I hope he’s caught too. Yes, I am angry. Yes, I do wonder why she was with him. Sure, I think she’s in a better place now.

It never occurred to me that someone on the Slate side of things might have the same lines ready to go. I always figured they wanted to shout about their father’s supposed innocence from the rooftops— but it’s clear that Sebastian wants anything but. When I’m silent for a few moments, he turns and looks at me expectantly.

“I don’t want to ask anything,” I say. It’s true. I don’t want to. I know I should— I know I need to ask, and tell, and admit who I am and who he is and how I think his father is an actual monster and how I want justice for my aunt. But I don’t want to, not at all.

“Everyone wants to ask,” Sebastian argues, shaking his head lightly against the pillow it’s resting on. “Everyone wants to know why I think he’s innocent.”

I close my eyes and fight to avoid cringing. Why I think he’s innocent. I could fight back with the thousand reasons I know Dennis Slate is guilty. But instead, I say, “I’m not with your father. I’m with you. And honestly, I’d rather pretend all that stuff with your family just doesn’t exist.” It’s perhaps the most truthful thing I’ve said all night.

Sebastian smiles a little, but then looks sad. “Yeah, me too.”

“Well. I can pretend if you can,” I say, and try again to cuddle up to him. This time, he allows it, and wraps his arms around me.

“I can. I’d love to, actually,” he says, then lowers his head and kisses me. It isn’t passionate, or deep, or arousing— it’s gentle, and grateful, and the kind of kiss you give someone who you plan on kissing a million more times.

So I kiss him back the same way.