The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 84

“I love the sounds you make when I touch you.” He kissed my eyelids, separating my folds, rubbing my slick center. “I love how you feel.”
My breath hitched, and I rubbed him through the towel. He bucked against my hand.
“I love how you touch me,” he growled, then softer added, “I love how you look at me. I love how brilliant, strong, and brave you are.” His movements slowed and he shifted his hand, caressing my hip as he nipped my jaw.
And then he held very still.
I blinked open my eyes, staring at him in question. It took a moment for the haze of desire to recede, but when it did his stare was intent. Had I done something wrong? How I wish I understood all his looks. His look confused me. He confused me. One minute he was insatiable, and the next a dividing wall.
“I love you.”
I could only blink at him, at his fierce gaze and words, dumbfounded.
“You . . .?”
His eyes dropped to my lips. “I’m in love with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
ECassChoosesPikachu: Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .
THEBryanLeech to ECassChoosesPikachu: You are. Always.
*Eilish*
“Wait. Wait a minute. Just. Wait.”
I was out of breath.
I couldn’t think.
My eyes lost focus.
It’s too soon.
“It’s too soon,” he said, bringing my attention back to him, reading my thoughts. “But it’s true. You’re perfection.”
“No. I’m not.”
“You are.” He grinned, charming me. “You are noble and genuine and—I feel like I need to be honest here—so goddamn sexy I can’t think straight.”
I shook my head. “Bryan—”
“Eilish, listen to me.” He gripped my face, holding it between his palms. “I’m in love with you. And it’s a relief to say it. I’ve been trying to keep my distance, not scare you, not push you. But I have to tell you. I love you. I’ve never said it to another person before, and I can’t imagine saying it to anyone else.”
All the breath left my lungs and I leaned heavily against the wall behind me. My eyes and nose stung, but I was in no danger of crying.
I just felt . . . blindsided.
And scared.
We stared at each other, but his stare was expectant. I knew what he wanted me to say, but I couldn’t.
I can’t. Not yet. Not yet.
Silence pressed around us as I struggled. He watched me, the expectation in his eyes cooling, growing remote, until finally he released me and stepped back.
My heart twisted, my lungs ached.
I had to say something. So I did.
“I used to stutter.”
Bryan’s eyebrows rose slowly. “What?”
“I used to have a stutter.” His gaze flickered over me and I shrugged, a small, helpless smile on my lips as I explained, “It used to drive my mother crazy. She told me not to speak—at all—because it irritated her so much.”
“I’m sorry.” His features softened a little, and I straightened my back. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me. That wasn’t the point of the story.
“I’m not.”
He blinked once and frowned, obviously confused.
“Don’t get me wrong. I know my mother is despicable, and I don’t condone her behavior. I would never treat Patrick like that. I felt sad about it, but mostly I felt frustrated. And then determined.”
“Determined to speak without a stutter.” He was openly studying me now, like he was trying to understand this odd alteration in conversation and how it related to his confession.
“Kind of. Yes. I wanted to speak without a stutter.” I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of voices behind me, beyond the curtain in the locker room. Lowering my voice, I returned my attention to him and rushed to explain, “But having the speech impediment and overcoming it is something I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. It taught me how to work hard for what I want, to stay the course, to define goals and stick to them.”
Bryan’s brow cleared as I spoke and his mouth hitched to the side. “So I have your stutter to thank for your extreme stubbornness?”
I laughed lightly, liking this, talking to him this way, hoping he would understand. “I suppose you do. But that’s not all.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes. There’s more.” I hesitated, studying him.
His eyes were jade green today, and he was looking at me like I’d invented rugby and cake.
He loves you.
I braced myself, because what I needed to tell him next might diminish his opinion or change his mind. We had limited time to talk and the clock was running out.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he prompted, clearly interested in where I was leading this conversation.
“I wasn’t a nice person,” I blurted.
His eyebrows jumped. “Excuse me?”
I swallowed an unexpected dryness in my throat. “I found it was easier to speak without a stutter when I was being sardonic and insincere. Being genuine, being . . . vulnerable, made it worse. So I grew up making jokes and being snarky.”
Bryan’s gaze searched mine. “That doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“You don’t know what I was like as a teenager. I wasn’t nice. And when other kids made fun of me for the way I spoke, I never forgave them.”
“You were also a kid.” Bryan gave me a funny look, like I was crazy.