I rub my beard, trying not to laugh, but it’s contagious.
-It was not my intention.
-I know. But it’s still funny.
Now I cross my arms, trying to convey how serious I am.
-It’s not funny.
“That’s only because you didn’t see your face.” She contorts her features into a highly exaggerated expression of horrified shock.
And then he laughs some more.
I groan and drop my cap on the desk.
“They probably kicked you out of class for laughing.”
His index finger sticks out of the plastic bottle and points at me as he takes a drink of water.
-Facts.
I can’t help but laugh. I imagine. The bed dips a little as I sit on the edge, not too close to Sloane. She continues sipping her water as her laughter subsides, and I take the two products she took from the bathroom.
-Okay, fine. I’ll give you a facial.
This time, when he laughs, water sprays toward the front of the room.
-My God. I lie down on the bed and put my arm over my face, feeling my body vibrate as I laugh with her. It has always had that effect on me. His cheerful nature is contagious. Sometimes I resist, and right now I don’t know why.
He covers his mouth with one hand and says from behind: “I’m sorry.” You can’t trust me now.
-Good. More water. Then you can give me whatever voodoo thing this is.
Way to avoid saying facial . “She is now sitting on her knees, looking down at me as she carefully sips her water.
“Please don’t spit water in my face,” I reply as I stare at her and our eyes lock onto each other without letting go. Without the brim of my cap, I feel exposed, uncovered, but because of her I’m not sure I care that much.
People looking at me too closely makes me nervous, makes my skin itch. But with Sloane’s eyes on me, all I feel is warmth.
When the silent eye contact seems to go on too long, I hold up the purple tube and read the instructions while she finishes the entire bottle of water. Once empty, he throws it over his shoulder. With a satisfied smile, he takes the tube, opens the cap, and squeezes white clay onto his fingertips.
It says you should wash your face with warm water first.
Sloane rolls her eyes.
Rich coming from the guy who cleans his face with body soap.
And then he spreads it on my forehead. By the nose. By the cheekbones. His eyes take on a slightly distant look as his soft fingers slide over the skin of my face. She frowns in concentration, her glacial iris eyes scanning every corner of my face as she meticulously spreads the clay. She catches me staring at her, and I stop looking at her, closing my eyes as if that would help me.
Except, behind the privacy of my own eyelids, her touch sends sparks of electricity across my skin and the darkness transforms into the image of her leaning over the pool table in front of me. I can still feel her slender body beneath mine, I can still feel my cock twitching before I had to force myself not to press against her.
Because friends don’t grind their cocks into their friends’ perfect asses. It’s just not done.
Despite that friend rule, I feel the familiar bloated sensation anyway, and it makes me stagger away from his touch.
-OK. “That’s fine,” I grumble, the thick clay substance tingling and pulling at my face. Your turn.
He nods, eyes slightly open. I don’t know what was going through his mind while he was rubbing that in my face, but there’s immediate tension between us now. The playful notes have disappeared. Like in the lake. Like on the damn pool table.
I take the tube and squeeze out a portion of clay with my fingertips. As I get closer to his face, I stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, thinking it will be less distracting this way.
I’m wrong.
Everything about Sloane Winthrop is a damn distraction. And I’ve been trying for a long time not to realize it.
When I brush my fingers against his cheekbone, he breathes heavily. Our gazes move to my hand, which trembles subtly under the scrutiny.
I swallow and continue forward, forcing myself to focus on my fingers and where I spread the clay instead of their melancholy. I have to be careful with her. I don’t want it to get in her hair. Or in his eyes. I wish my lowest point of the night was still hitting her in the face with a water bottle.
When I spread the material over his jaw and run it over his chin, my fingertips slide over his bottom lip. I see it in slow motion. Chalk white on plush pink. My fingers. His lip. The way it flattens and presses to the side with the slightest pressure. Everything about her is so soft and malleable.
He gasps again, opens his mouth, and this time my eyes lock onto his. They are big and shiny, all shades of blue. A kaleidoscope of colors. A prairie sky. A robin’s egg. A glacial lake. Stripes of something darker, making all those pale colors stand out.
And that damn gasp is lightning to my groin.
-Did you know? Her eyelashes fall like a curtain, and she moves away from the bed. I’ll finish this myself. I won’t force you to do it.
Before he can say anything, he’s in the bathroom and the sink is open. When I arrive, he is rubbing his face and avoiding looking me in the eye.
In the end he gives me a flat smile as he sneaks a glance at me through the mirror, his eyes glued to my face, which is covered in what looks like dried white paint. It sticks to my stubble and cracks in places.
In a way it reminds me of myself. A fragile shell. One small crack and everything can explode.
-Are you OK?
“Yes,” he says a little too cheerfully as he wipes his face. I just realized I should go to bed if I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow.
When he leaves, I let out a heavy sigh and let my palms fall to the counter in front of me.
I’m not sure what’s wrong with us today, but we’re both going to feel like shit tomorrow, regardless of alcohol intake.
Because Sloane will have a hangover. And I’m going to be tired of staying up all night fighting thoughts about all the dirty things I want to do to her and those soft, swollen lips.