More Than This
Page 28
“To the ice machine!” he announces, one hand on his waist and the other in the air, like he’s a superhero. I laugh and jump onto his back. He grabs me around the legs and hands me the ice bucket on the way out.
“We call flip-flops ‘thongs,’” he says, turning his head to peek at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What?” I laugh.
“When I was living with my aunt and uncle before we moved back here, a girl invited me to her house for a pool party. The whole class was there. I had taken my flip-flops off by the side of the pool, so when I was ready to get out I asked this girl, who was smokin’ hot for thirteen, to hand them to me—except I said, ‘Chuck us me thongs!’”
I throw my head back in laughter so hard, he loses his balance and has to steady us.
“After that, people kept teasing me that I wore thongs—which in Australia is called a G-string, FYI. Anyway, it took me a good two months to convince people that I didn’t wear thongs, and that I was asking for flip-flops.”
I’m glad he’s holding on to me, because if he weren’t, I’d be rolling around on the floor.
“Mikayla, is that you?” I look up to see Aunt Lisa’s mom smiling at me.
I climb off Jake’s back and give her a hug, trying to hide the fact that I’m buzzed—or wasted. I’m probably closer to wasted. “Hi, Mrs. Jennings. What a lovely ceremony!”
“Oh, yes, dear, it was. It was nice to see you smiling. Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, ma’am, I really did.” I smile at her.
“That’s wonderful! Your parents would be so happy.” She looks at Jake. “And this is your boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s not—” What is he? I look at him. He’s eyeing me, waiting for my response with a goofy expression on his face. I laugh a little and take his hand. “This is my Jake,” I say proudly.
Jake glances at me sideways and smirks. He reaches out and shakes Mrs. Jennings’s hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He holds up the ice bucket. “I’ll get the ice and meet you back in the room,” he says to me before walking away.
When I return to our room, I notice that the ice bucket is filled and sitting near the bottle of champagne on the little dining table. I can hear the shower running. Weird. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for him to come out.
When he does, my jaw drops. He’s shirtless with just sweatpants on. They ride so low on his hips, I can see the band of his boxer briefs peeking out. He has a towel in one hand, drying his wet chest. The steam from the bathroom pours out through the open doorway, and he shakes his head to get rid of some of the water.
My mouth goes dry, and I itch to run my fingers over his stomach. I sit on my hands so I don’t get too tempted. My eyes roam down his body. He has to know what I’m doing, because he hasn’t moved since he walked out and noticed me. I must be wasted, because I’m positive that time stops—the second hand of the clock must have decided that I deserve some luck and is pausing to let me stare at this masterpiece of a boy. I rub my legs together, trying to ease some of the tension down there.
He finally moves and sits down next to me—so close that his bare arm is rubbing on mine. I can feel his heat at my side. It’s not the only place I’m feeling heat.
I’m ridiculously horny beyond belief.
I’m too ashamed to look at his face. And I don’t know how he’s reacting to my stare-athon. In my mind, I must look like a giant St. Bernard with sloppy drool dripping out of its mouth, panting and whimpering like it needs to lick the giant bone inches from its face.
Jake can be my giant bone. Oh my God. Bone.
I should lick him.
On his chest.
No! I’m not that wasted. But is he? Maybe he wouldn’t remember if I gave him just one lick.
I turn to face him, my eyes on his chest. Do it . . .
“Kayla?”
“Mmm?” I’m almost there.
“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to have to ask you to take your shirt off so we’re even.”
TWENTY-ONE
MIKAYLA
I snap to reality and jump back a bit.
I was two seconds away from licking him.
Laughing to myself, I run past him into the bathroom, so I can steady my breathing and get some space. I look in the mirror, but all I see is that St. Bernard. I laugh out loud this time.
“What’s so funny in there?” He yells so I can hear him through the door.
“I was totally going to lick you!”
“What?!”
What the fuck? Why did I just say that?
“Nothing!”
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, he’s lying on the bed with his legs on the floor, like he flung himself backwards from a sitting position. He’s got one arm over his eyes. He hears me come out but doesn’t move.
“I’m, like, in a euphoric state of buzzed right now,” he mumbles. “How are you holding up?”
“Me too, but I think I’m a little worse off.” I sit on the bed. “Hey, Jake?”
“Mmm?”
“You need to put a shirt on.”
He doesn’t say anything—he just gets up, goes to his bag, and throws on a T-shirt. He then walks over to the champagne, pours two glasses with ice, and hands one to me. Half an hour later, we’re on the floor again, laughing.
“Let’s play truth or dare!” I cry, like it’s the greatest idea in the world.
“Or,” he says, holding his finger up like he has a better idea, “I could braid your hair while we watch Hannah Montana. That would be swell.”
“I’m serious.” We’re way past buzzed again.
“I’m serious, too, Kayla. You don’t need to play games. If you want to fool around, just say it,” he jokes, reaching out to grab a boob. I swat his hand away and giggle. He feigns disappointment. “Okay. Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the truth. The same goes for you, too, though, okay?”
“Done.” I nod. “Me first. How many girls have you slept with?”
He moans and rolls his eyes. He pours himself another glass of champagne and says, “Shit, I’ve got to hit the gym tomorrow.”
“All right, Captain Deflect-o, answer the question.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Between thirty to fifty, I guess.”
I scrunch my nose and give him a disgusted look.
“We call flip-flops ‘thongs,’” he says, turning his head to peek at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What?” I laugh.
“When I was living with my aunt and uncle before we moved back here, a girl invited me to her house for a pool party. The whole class was there. I had taken my flip-flops off by the side of the pool, so when I was ready to get out I asked this girl, who was smokin’ hot for thirteen, to hand them to me—except I said, ‘Chuck us me thongs!’”
I throw my head back in laughter so hard, he loses his balance and has to steady us.
“After that, people kept teasing me that I wore thongs—which in Australia is called a G-string, FYI. Anyway, it took me a good two months to convince people that I didn’t wear thongs, and that I was asking for flip-flops.”
I’m glad he’s holding on to me, because if he weren’t, I’d be rolling around on the floor.
“Mikayla, is that you?” I look up to see Aunt Lisa’s mom smiling at me.
I climb off Jake’s back and give her a hug, trying to hide the fact that I’m buzzed—or wasted. I’m probably closer to wasted. “Hi, Mrs. Jennings. What a lovely ceremony!”
“Oh, yes, dear, it was. It was nice to see you smiling. Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, ma’am, I really did.” I smile at her.
“That’s wonderful! Your parents would be so happy.” She looks at Jake. “And this is your boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s not—” What is he? I look at him. He’s eyeing me, waiting for my response with a goofy expression on his face. I laugh a little and take his hand. “This is my Jake,” I say proudly.
Jake glances at me sideways and smirks. He reaches out and shakes Mrs. Jennings’s hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He holds up the ice bucket. “I’ll get the ice and meet you back in the room,” he says to me before walking away.
When I return to our room, I notice that the ice bucket is filled and sitting near the bottle of champagne on the little dining table. I can hear the shower running. Weird. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for him to come out.
When he does, my jaw drops. He’s shirtless with just sweatpants on. They ride so low on his hips, I can see the band of his boxer briefs peeking out. He has a towel in one hand, drying his wet chest. The steam from the bathroom pours out through the open doorway, and he shakes his head to get rid of some of the water.
My mouth goes dry, and I itch to run my fingers over his stomach. I sit on my hands so I don’t get too tempted. My eyes roam down his body. He has to know what I’m doing, because he hasn’t moved since he walked out and noticed me. I must be wasted, because I’m positive that time stops—the second hand of the clock must have decided that I deserve some luck and is pausing to let me stare at this masterpiece of a boy. I rub my legs together, trying to ease some of the tension down there.
He finally moves and sits down next to me—so close that his bare arm is rubbing on mine. I can feel his heat at my side. It’s not the only place I’m feeling heat.
I’m ridiculously horny beyond belief.
I’m too ashamed to look at his face. And I don’t know how he’s reacting to my stare-athon. In my mind, I must look like a giant St. Bernard with sloppy drool dripping out of its mouth, panting and whimpering like it needs to lick the giant bone inches from its face.
Jake can be my giant bone. Oh my God. Bone.
I should lick him.
On his chest.
No! I’m not that wasted. But is he? Maybe he wouldn’t remember if I gave him just one lick.
I turn to face him, my eyes on his chest. Do it . . .
“Kayla?”
“Mmm?” I’m almost there.
“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to have to ask you to take your shirt off so we’re even.”
TWENTY-ONE
MIKAYLA
I snap to reality and jump back a bit.
I was two seconds away from licking him.
Laughing to myself, I run past him into the bathroom, so I can steady my breathing and get some space. I look in the mirror, but all I see is that St. Bernard. I laugh out loud this time.
“What’s so funny in there?” He yells so I can hear him through the door.
“I was totally going to lick you!”
“What?!”
What the fuck? Why did I just say that?
“Nothing!”
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, he’s lying on the bed with his legs on the floor, like he flung himself backwards from a sitting position. He’s got one arm over his eyes. He hears me come out but doesn’t move.
“I’m, like, in a euphoric state of buzzed right now,” he mumbles. “How are you holding up?”
“Me too, but I think I’m a little worse off.” I sit on the bed. “Hey, Jake?”
“Mmm?”
“You need to put a shirt on.”
He doesn’t say anything—he just gets up, goes to his bag, and throws on a T-shirt. He then walks over to the champagne, pours two glasses with ice, and hands one to me. Half an hour later, we’re on the floor again, laughing.
“Let’s play truth or dare!” I cry, like it’s the greatest idea in the world.
“Or,” he says, holding his finger up like he has a better idea, “I could braid your hair while we watch Hannah Montana. That would be swell.”
“I’m serious.” We’re way past buzzed again.
“I’m serious, too, Kayla. You don’t need to play games. If you want to fool around, just say it,” he jokes, reaching out to grab a boob. I swat his hand away and giggle. He feigns disappointment. “Okay. Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the truth. The same goes for you, too, though, okay?”
“Done.” I nod. “Me first. How many girls have you slept with?”
He moans and rolls his eyes. He pours himself another glass of champagne and says, “Shit, I’ve got to hit the gym tomorrow.”
“All right, Captain Deflect-o, answer the question.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Between thirty to fifty, I guess.”
I scrunch my nose and give him a disgusted look.
