“Are you stalking me or something?” I ask, hanging my towel on the hook. “Because if this is some kind of stalker fetish—”
“I’m not stalking you, Adams.” He rubs his eyes. I can’t help but notice the dark circles underneath. A thick layer of stubble covers his sharp chin. “As someone stuck here on the weekend, it’s just pretty obvious that you take off every Sunday. And before you ask, no, I didn’t follow you down here. Coach asked me to fill out this heat sheet before time trials on Monday and I forgot.”
His story checks out. I’d filled out my sheet on Friday, and he’s right. This campus is small. I know way more about my classmates’ schedules than I’d like. But could anyone blame me for being a little paranoid the day after having sex with Hamilton? This little game with him is making me lose my mind. I slide my feet into my shoes and reach for my jacket.
“What do you think?” he asks suddenly, angling toward me with his sheet in hand. “Pierce or Bearman for the fifty-free?”
I stop mid-zip and blink. “You... want my opinion?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I just asked you for it, didn’t I?”
The hair prickles on the back of my neck and I discreetly look around for a camera. If anyone could pull a long-con, it’d be Hamilton. Is that what this is about? Him making me feel comfortable, then getting evidence to prove me and my sister are sluts?
He drops the paper onto the desk, sighing. “I don’t know what’s running through that head of yours, Adams, but you seriously need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
He leans back in the chair, his long legs sprawled in front of him, and rubs a hand down his tired face. “Look, there’s no way to avoid fallout from last night. I get it, trust me. But you look like you’re waiting for a bomb to drop.”
“Are you saying there isn’t one?” I cross my arms, watching him skeptically. “Because that’s the problem, Bates. I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust the Devils. I don’t get why you’re doing this, or why I’m caught up in it.”
“It’s sex.” He raises his hands, palms out, hapless. “There’s not much more to it than that.” He runs his hand through his hair. “It’s just... it’s a distraction. That’s all.”
“Distraction from what?”
He glares at me for so long that I think he won’t answer. But he does. “From school, college applications, my parents, boredom. Pick one. Predictably, you’re overthinking it.”
“I’m not predictable and I’m not overthinking it.”
He laces his fingers behind his head, eyebrows raised. “Every day you get up and go to the carpool line to meet your brother and sister before school. You walk them to class. Then you put on that battle armor and head into the main building, where you get to class with exactly zero time to spare to interact with anyone. At night, during the off season, you sneak down here after water polo practice for extra swim time. You don’t go to parties. You don’t do social media. You don’t really like going home on weekends, except you clearly feel obligated. You’re obsessed with your grades. Probably more horrified at the blemish on your record for getting detention than having to do it with me. You’re so hung up on your fucking savior complex that you hardly have time to get off the cross to live your life.” He swivels in the chair. “You’re predictable and you need a distraction as much as I do.”
His summary hits me like a punch in the gut. I can’t dispute any of it. I narrow my eyes. “I thought you weren’t stalking me.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m observant—particularly with the people trying to ruin my life. Don’t tell me you don’t keep track of me the same way. Know your enemy, isn’t that the saying?”
There’s something wrong with me, because as he speaks, as he admits that he’s noticed me, watched me for all these months, something inside me flares to life again. Hamilton and I have been circling one another for ages, the push-pull of whatever keeps dragging us together impossible to ignore.
Every interaction we’ve had has been on his terms. Every kiss, every touch, every meeting. But as I stand before him right now, it clicks.
He’s right. I’m overthinking it. It’s just sex.
Sex, with a little practice, that could be really, really good.
Heart pounding, I walk to the door and close it, pushing the lock in with my thumb. I’m done being the poor little embarrassed girl all the time. If I want to fuck Hamilton, then why shouldn’t I?
I turn and feel his gaze tracking my motions closely, carefully, as I throw caution to the wind and climb into his lap, straddling his hips.
His eyes widen, hands flying up. “Adams, what the—”
“You really don’t need to talk for this.” I grab a fistful of his hair and say, “Shut the fuck up.” I register his shock, the way his mouth parts on an inhale, and then the slow transformation as his eyes drags over my body, hands landing on my hips.
He meets my gaze, mouth twisting into dark smirk. “Make me,” he replies, hands sliding down to cup my ass.
I do, crashing my mouth into his, sinking into this boy—this trouble—pushing aside my fear and paranoia. His tongue is hot and his hands are greedy, and he’s right.
Hamilton Bates is very, very distracting.
If I’m going to play with fire, I figure I may as well do it with the Devil himself.