more plausible to me than “I am secretly in love with you.” Much. Much. He’s clenching at the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles have turned white, but it’s still a completely reasonable explanation.
“And as for the stories…” He pauses, then, and this time I can see him really struggling. As though possible love and illicit masturbation is no big deal, but this…this is like some kind of awful insurmountable obstacle the likes of which the world has never seen. It’s like he’s trying to climb Olympus Mons with a toothpick and some dental floss as his only tools. “Which one did you read?”
He asks the question in this horrible, faux-casual sort of way. Raises one eyebrow and won’t meet my gaze. Seriously—how is someone this handsome that awkward?
“The first one,” I say, then for some reason wish I’d gone with a different answer. I bet there’s some nice romantic tale in there somewhere, about making love and buying people flowers and eating chocolates in bed or something.
But unfortunately for him, I read the one about two girls practically gang-raping a guy who resembles him in more ways than one. And so I have to watch his eyes kind of flutter closed in a way that almost makes me want to giggle. It’s an obvious expression of mortification, but there’s something about the way he almost rolls his eyes at the same time, and doesn’t quite close them…it’s very endearing.
“Oh that’s wonderful,” he says, while my mind flashes on every little detail of that particular story. The hand over his mouth, all the talk of being used , the feeling-like-a-woman stuff…
Cam is just so self-contained. It must be like someone’s cut a hole in him and is letting all the stuffing spill out.
“I really, really didn’t mean to pry,” I say, but that’s a lie. I did mean to pry. I watched him jerking off and it infected my brain with some kind of sex fever, and then I simply couldn’t stop searching for further evidence of his…whatever this is.
However, I cannot use this as an explanation to him.
“It’s fine,” he says, and waves a casual hand. Everything is too casual. He’s never casual. “Like you said—I did it to you, first.”
“It’s not the same,” I say, because it isn’t. Him going through my stuff is not a big deal. Me going through his stuff is like breaking into Fort Knox. “And besides, this isn’t tit for tat. I didn’t…that’s not how I intended it. You just made me so curious!”
Ugh. Did I really just say that? And also: why did me saying something so dumb suddenly light up his face like that? As though he’s happy about my curiosity.
“Seriously?” he says.
I immediately want to back out of my own natural snoopiness.
“Well…uh…yeah. I mean—you’re not exactly the most forthcoming of people.”
This is true. Once, I asked him if he liked cereal for breakfast and he replied he’d have to think about it. Evasion is practically his middle name. I’m surprised he even got as far as “whatever…uh…you might have seen.”
I mean, the above actually implies there was something to see.
God, he’d make a great politician. I think his parents actually wanted him to be one, so that’s not really a shocker.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and then for some reason I feel really bad about having that politician thought. I don’t even know why he’s apologizing, in truth—after all, it’s me who did the wrong thing.
“No, no—it’s me. I shouldn’t have come in here, and I shouldn’t have read your stuff—it’s up to you if you want to share, not me—”
He scrubs his hands over his face briefly.
“I do want to share. I just can’t. Not this.”
“Well, that’s cool. No one says you have to,” I say, which seems like a nice, calming thing to tell him. Only when he looks up at me there’s an intensity in his gaze I haven’t seen before. Not ever. He’s usually so still, so to see him like this is…unsettling.
“And as for the stories…” He pauses, then, and this time I can see him really struggling. As though possible love and illicit masturbation is no big deal, but this…this is like some kind of awful insurmountable obstacle the likes of which the world has never seen. It’s like he’s trying to climb Olympus Mons with a toothpick and some dental floss as his only tools. “Which one did you read?”
He asks the question in this horrible, faux-casual sort of way. Raises one eyebrow and won’t meet my gaze. Seriously—how is someone this handsome that awkward?
“The first one,” I say, then for some reason wish I’d gone with a different answer. I bet there’s some nice romantic tale in there somewhere, about making love and buying people flowers and eating chocolates in bed or something.
But unfortunately for him, I read the one about two girls practically gang-raping a guy who resembles him in more ways than one. And so I have to watch his eyes kind of flutter closed in a way that almost makes me want to giggle. It’s an obvious expression of mortification, but there’s something about the way he almost rolls his eyes at the same time, and doesn’t quite close them…it’s very endearing.
“Oh that’s wonderful,” he says, while my mind flashes on every little detail of that particular story. The hand over his mouth, all the talk of being used , the feeling-like-a-woman stuff…
Cam is just so self-contained. It must be like someone’s cut a hole in him and is letting all the stuffing spill out.
“I really, really didn’t mean to pry,” I say, but that’s a lie. I did mean to pry. I watched him jerking off and it infected my brain with some kind of sex fever, and then I simply couldn’t stop searching for further evidence of his…whatever this is.
However, I cannot use this as an explanation to him.
“It’s fine,” he says, and waves a casual hand. Everything is too casual. He’s never casual. “Like you said—I did it to you, first.”
“It’s not the same,” I say, because it isn’t. Him going through my stuff is not a big deal. Me going through his stuff is like breaking into Fort Knox. “And besides, this isn’t tit for tat. I didn’t…that’s not how I intended it. You just made me so curious!”
Ugh. Did I really just say that? And also: why did me saying something so dumb suddenly light up his face like that? As though he’s happy about my curiosity.
“Seriously?” he says.
I immediately want to back out of my own natural snoopiness.
“Well…uh…yeah. I mean—you’re not exactly the most forthcoming of people.”
This is true. Once, I asked him if he liked cereal for breakfast and he replied he’d have to think about it. Evasion is practically his middle name. I’m surprised he even got as far as “whatever…uh…you might have seen.”
I mean, the above actually implies there was something to see.
God, he’d make a great politician. I think his parents actually wanted him to be one, so that’s not really a shocker.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and then for some reason I feel really bad about having that politician thought. I don’t even know why he’s apologizing, in truth—after all, it’s me who did the wrong thing.
“No, no—it’s me. I shouldn’t have come in here, and I shouldn’t have read your stuff—it’s up to you if you want to share, not me—”
He scrubs his hands over his face briefly.
“I do want to share. I just can’t. Not this.”
“Well, that’s cool. No one says you have to,” I say, which seems like a nice, calming thing to tell him. Only when he looks up at me there’s an intensity in his gaze I haven’t seen before. Not ever. He’s usually so still, so to see him like this is…unsettling.
Similar Books
