“It’s over.” His lips press into my temple. “And I’m sorry too. I was being an asshole, getting on you for stupid shit.”

We’re quiet then until Gray sighs, easing impossibly closer, his big hand slowly stroking up and down my spine. Comfort. That’s what he’s seeking. But I’m no longer thinking of comfort because awareness has set in, of his tight abdomen against mine, the bulge of his cock nestled against my sex. He isn’t hard, but it’s there, obvious and substantial, causing me to think about things that should never enter my head.

Deep within my belly, I clench, heat whispering over my skin. I want to melt into him, stay there all day. I want to open my legs, have him fill that lonely space in between them. If I tilt my chin, my lips will brush the satiny curve where his neck meets his shoulder. I want to lick that spot, taste it and bite it. I don’t want to think of other girls doing the same.

My heart stops. All my anger—the vicious words I’d said—is fueled by jealousy. I am jealous of those faceless, nameless women.

Shame is a lump in my throat, the pricking burn behind my lids. I lashed out because of jealousy, and it’s so wrong of me. I’m so fucking screwed, and I don’t know what to say to make it right. “Gray…”

“I don’t want you to have sex like I’ve been doing it, Ivy,” he says with sudden heat. “It ought to mean something. For you. It ought to be good like that.”

My heart hurts at the hollowness in his voice, and I spread my hand against his lower ribs, holding him. “Why can’t it be like that for you too? Why the endless hook ups?”

Because we’re so close, I feel the tension snake up his back. “It just…” He swallows hard. “I guess I keep waiting for the one who will make me want to stop.”

“Stop having sex?” I’m chilled to the bone, my heart thudding against my ribs. And I’m such a hypocrite because the thought of him not wanting to have sex again is horrific.

My hair musses as he shakes his head. “Stop moving on to the next girl.” His chest expands on a breath. “Ivy, I love women, and I love sex. But you’re right. It doesn’t mean anything to me other than quick pleasure. I don’t care who it is. I don’t remember their names. Shit, I am as bad as you said.”

He sounds so despondent that I give him a squeeze. “No, Gray. Please don’t say that. Can we just… I wish I could take back our fight.”

Slowly, he eases away from me, though his arms remain loosely wrapped around my shoulders. It takes us both a moment to meet each other’s eyes. It’s awkward, and his expression is twisted as though he’s tasted something foul. My fault. But he forces a smile. “Hey, we’re good.” He pats my hair with a clumsiness unlike him, his thumb hitting my cheekbone and nearly poking me in the eye. “It wouldn’t be normal if we never fought.”

Wincing a bit, I grasp his forearms and hold on. Because I can’t keep my hands off him, apparently. “This is true.”

Gray studies me, his blue gaze unnerving. The air between us is too thick, and I can’t breathe properly. A crease grows between his brows, as if he can see my guilt and the fact that I am fighting not to rise up on my toes and press my mouth to his soft lips. Fuck. A. Duck.

God help me if he really knew what I was thinking. He’d probably run out the door. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. No, he presses his forehead to mine, cupping my cheeks in his massive palms. It warms me all over.

“I’m going to go now,” he tells me after a moment. “Gotta get up early for a hell practice.”

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t go. He seems closer, his breath mingling with mine, brushing over my parted lips. It’s too quiet. His fingers twitch, gripping me harder. And then he lets go so abruptly that I almost stumble. Gray’s smile is wide, maybe too wide. He’s backing up, maneuvering around a chair.

“Night, Special Sauce.”

I give him a smile back. False. Strained. Fucked up. That’s me, Fucked-up Ivy. “Night, Cupcake.”

Ten

Gray

For the first time in our relationship, I’ve outright lied to Ivy. Okay, it’s a small lie but a lie nonetheless. I don’t have early practice. I just had to get away from her. Fast. She hurt me. Not when she’d told me the truth of how she saw me. Hell, I know what I am. No, it was the pity in her expression, as if my inability to find any meaning in sex made me pathetic.

Now I’m vacillating between outrage and pain. Sex is sex. Fuck if I should be ashamed of having as much of it as I want. But then there’s this pain, right behind my sternum. Because she’s brought up things that I don’t ever like to think about. Such as why I can’t find meaning in the act. But I know, don’t I? And that knowledge is a scab that I don’t want to pick at.

Only she’s already picked it, and now I’m slowly bleeding. I know Ivy’s sorry she hurt me. It doesn’t matter. The cat’s out of the bag. And I can’t stop thinking: Am I really living for the moment, or am I running away from reality?

But even that isn’t the real reason I escaped Ivy. It was because for one blind second, I’d been about to say the stupidest thing I could. Make me stop, Ivy. Be the one who makes it all stop.

I have the feeling that she could. I’d stood there, aching and hating that we were snapping at each other, and all I wanted to do was kiss her, explore the gentle curve of her lower lip before sucking on it. And Ivy would have flipped out. Because friends do not maul other friends’ mouths.