Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Love: Z, we can’t. It’s too risky for you to hear my voice.

Zac: Then don’t say anything. Just listen.

He calls again.

I hang up a second time.

He calls right back.

Zac: Take a chance, L.

My throat bobbing, I clutch my phone against my chest and accept the call. I guide the phone to my ear, tensing up like my feelings for the guy on the other end are a time bomb waiting to blow up in my face. Not a sound is uttered down the line.

But I can hear him breathing.

Fuck’s sake, even his breathing is hot.

Until he breaks the silence.

“Hey,” a hushed, deep, ridiculously sexy voice says, and that simple sound sends shivers scurrying down my spine. I don’t say a word, which doesn’t seem to surprise him because he cuts to the chase immediately.

“See that glass of ice water on your nightstand?”

I glance at the glass in question.

How does he know about that?

Right. He must’ve seen it in the background of my first picture.

“Pick it up,” he commands.

Confused as to where he’s going with this, I stretch out my arm to grab the stone-cold glass I filled up in the kitchen earlier.

He gives me a few seconds before resuming.

“Reach inside the glass and pull out an ice cube for me, will you?” I know from his tone that he’s not asking.

That voice.

I heard it so many times in real life, but Xav on the phone… I can’t even explain what this guy is doing to me. The clearer his intentions become, the faster my pulse climbs. I oblige, dipping my fingers inside the freezing water and wincing at the temperature.

“Run it down your neck.”

Bending to his every will, I press the melting ice to the soft spot behind my ear and drag it down my neck, grazing my collarbone with a small gasp.

Shit, that’s cold.

Xavier releases a low grunt at the noise that just spilled from my mouth, and the thought of him grasping at any little scraps I’ll give him sets my heart ablaze. He’s just as desperate for me as I am for him.

Fuck, I wish this was real.

I wish we were real.

“Your chest,” he instructs.

The ice cube trails from my collarbone to my breasts, nearing the fabric of my thin bralette, and I chew down on my lip to drown out my unsteady breathing.

“Take it off, L,” he orders and my insides practically liquify at my nickname on his lips. Feels so good to hear him say it out loud. I tug the bralette down my chest on cue, the cold air like a sharp whip to my painfully hard nipples.