Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cassie decided the best thing to do was sleep on it.

But the problem was—sleeping on it was not exactly easy.

She felt as if every horny atom in her usually pretty quiet body had been shaken up. Her entire being was a bottle of Pepsi, that had been dropped on the floor. And she had no way to safely unscrew the cap. Every time she thought just stop being ridiculous and fuck yourself out of this , her mind immediately followed it up with an image of Seth.

Like she'd filled out a masturbation-fantasy order form.

And been supplied the exact opposite of what she ever wanted to want.

Just give me some Carmy Berzatto for a few seconds , she begged her brain. But her brain wasn't listening. And it continued to not listen no matter what she did. She tried sexy pictures, sexy books, sexy fan fiction. Nothing shook Seth's face out of her head.

Seth, who was now her friend. Maybe even her good friend.

And good friends could not think like this.

Good friends had to answer the door to each other, while being a normal, calm, non-horny mess. But somehow, she didn't think she was going to manage that. It took so much effort just to get dressed without getting flustered. And even after she heard him let himself in, she couldn't immediately go down. She had to take deep breaths and tell herself that she would feel fine when she saw him, just to make it to the top of the stairs.

Then she made it, she finally made it.

And she took one look at him.

And somehow her feelings actually increased .

Even though he looked more ordinary than she'd hoped. Heck, he looked worse than the ordinary she'd hoped for. No jeans, no boots, no leather jacket. Instead, he was wearing a plaid shirt. And the kind of boring pants and footwear he used to love: brown cords with a cuff, and a pair of old Converse high-tops.

Plus his hair had not been styled, in the least. It was shaggy, and soft, and kind of fell over his forehead, instead of swooping up to the sky. Yet somehow it still made the thing happen. That hot rush, that syrupy sensation, that buckling in her legs.

And now it seemed even keener. Sharper.

Almost like greed, in some inexplicable way she didn't know how to fight. She couldn't tell herself, No, you really don't want to eat that poison cake . Her body didn't register the no . It didn't accept that the cake was poison. It just acted, without her permission.

It made her reach forward.

And put.

Her hand.

Directly into that soft hair .

Much to his astonishment. His eyes went enormous; he tried to step back and failed. Then finally he blurted out her name, in a strained, nearly outraged tone.

And that pretty much snapped her out of it. She drew her hand back whip-quick. Fumbled out an excuse. "You had something in your hair," she said—and thankfully, it seemed to work. He lost the panicked look, and calmed down enough to follow her into the kitchen. And once there she felt a little more stable. Now they could get to work. She could show him her ideas for new potions.

Then she turned, and realized that he wasn't into idea-showing right now.

He had brought some goddamn breakfast.

Lots of breakfast, apparently, from what looked like the Spinning Top Diner off Main Street. She watched him lay out folds of omelet, oozing cheese, onto plates. Then biscuits wrapped in paper, rich gravy in a carton, mounds of browned-into-a-crispy- mass hash browns, deliriously spiced pumpkin muffins, coffees that he described as bonfire flavored. And finally, just as she thought he was done: pancakes so soaked in blueberry compote that they came apart when he tried to lift them out of their foil container.

"We can just eat them right out of there, I guess," he said.

But she wasn't listening. She couldn't listen.

The thing was happening again—and this time she had almost no clue why.

Because there was no shock of something sexual here. Or even him looking kind of nice. He was just laying out breakfast. That he had brought specially for her. That he had carefully selected because he knew they were her favorite foods. And without so much as a thought about things she'd always assumed he must have cared about.

Like bullshit about fat girls and calories.

Plus there was the cost. What had this fucking cost?

He barely made any money. This was way too much to spend.

Though it felt no better to her when he explained. "I did a favor for the owner, and so she did a favor for me, so I could do one for you. To say sorry and thank you again," he said, as she stood there staring at him. Every bit of her sure that she should just be pleasantly pleased, maybe. Or possibly just intent on paying him back.

But somehow instead, she was burning up.

And she had the strongest urge to do another mad thing—like touch him a second time. Because, really, wouldn't it be fine to do that? Hadn't he hugged her the night before? That had been okay, so she couldn't see why not. She could just slip a hand around his waist, and maybe squeeze him a little bit. Get closer to that heat, radiating off him. That gorgeous heat, that amazing heat, like being close to a bonfire, a lovely bonfire, oh, wouldn't it be okay to just bur—

"Cassie, for the love of god ."

She knew what she had done the instant she heard his voice. That strained tone, the words he'd used—he sounded exactly like the day before. And sure enough, it was all over his face when she finally looked. That flush, deep enough to show even through his thick stubble. The heaviness of his eyelids, the heated desperation in his gaze.

And of course he was looking right at her hand.

The one she had thought was hovering in the air, an inch from him. But was actually on his body. It was right on him. And not even anywhere near his waist, either. Fuck no—somehow she'd placed it on his stomach. Low down on his stomach. Really low down.

God, she was almost at his belt.

"Sorry," she gasped, and snapped her hand away. But she could tell it was already too late. He was shivering all over, gaze heavy. And there was that hint of sharp teeth beneath the curve of his lip. Kept in check, she thought, by the potions. But still a terrible pain to him.

Just like it had been yesterday.

Only without the same recourse.

After all, she couldn't simply suggest dirty talk. It had been bad enough when they'd simply stumbled into it. No—she needed another option. Something simpler, and more practical. Like maybe the potion she'd made, in the middle of the night. Half-asleep, but determined to have multiple reasonable ways around whatever was going on.

Though it didn't feel as reasonable, once she had the tin of it in her hands.

Because now she had to explain what it was, and god, that felt way more awkward than she had imagined it being. She started to say, and fumbled it. Tried again, and trailed off. Then finally, she just tried to make her words sound as cheery as possible.

"Okay. Okay. I can see I have completely messed you up. But don't worry. Because I made this for you. So you can—you know. See to things," she said, as she held the tin out. But he just looked confused. And even hornier. And that meant more godforsaken words. "Because I kind of thought, oh maybe if stuff like yesterday happens again, I could just leave you in the kitchen and probably you can safely get down to business. But then what if the kitchen isn't available? What if you're somewhere else? What if you'd rather be more comfortable, in, like, a shower or a bed or even on a couch? Or you're still nervous, and want to be locked up? Well, this will help you consider all of that."

She smiled brightly, relieved that she had gotten through it without being explicit.

Mission accomplished, she thought.

Only for him to just go ahead and fucking say it anyway. "Cassie, are you seriously telling me you've made some kind of magic lube?" he said as he took the tin from her hand. And okay, yeah, she definitely had. But did he really have to spell it out?

She'd been so careful. Now the word was out there, fucking her up.

Her whole body tingled the moment he said it. Then somehow, it was all she could think about. What the potion was for. What he could do with it. How good it would feel. He even seemed to agree on that last part. He all but gasped his gratitude.

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, so quick and thrilled about it that it really should have been a relief. His problem was dealt with, he'd asked no questions about her touching him, and now he was far away from her. She could breathe. Calm herself down.

Everything was going to be okay.

But then she heard it.

A metal-on-metal sound, that had to be his belt being unbuckled. Hastily, like he just couldn't wait long enough to do it at a normal speed. She'd put a hand on him, and talked about magical lube. And now he was so beside himself she wasn't even sure if he had done much beyond that. If he'd actually taken the time to get his pants all the way off.

Because a second later he made the most ungodly sound.

A deep, guttural groan, so thick with desperation and relief and shock that she was able to clearly picture the probable sequence of events. He had slicked his hand, or maybe both hands. Then he had just stroked, over his no-doubt bursting cock. And apparently the pleasure had been so intense and so long-awaited, that he had made this sound.

The one seemed to grab her and squeeze .

For a second she couldn't breathe. Or think rationally.

It took her a good minute to comprehend that she needed to put on some loud music, right now. But before she could, she got another groan. Lots of groans, all as intense as the first. She heard him panting, and gasping, and choking out a long ooohhh of pleasure.

And underneath it all, there was something else now, too: the slick slide of skin on skin. Sometimes slow and easy, like he was trying to savor it. Other times devolving into something more frantic, something more desperate, something that made his breathing high and tight.

And then, oh fuck, fuck , there were words.

"God, yeah baby, that feels so good," he gasped out.

Like he was in there doing someone . Or someone was on her knees, sucking him off, and he had his hand in her hair. He had it right there, encouraging her to take more of his big, heavy cock, until finally he could hardly stand it. Whatever this imaginary person was doing, it was too much. He had to let it out. "Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me do it," he groaned.

And just as Cassie tried to use that image to calm herself down—just as she thought of all the girls that make-believe person might be, and all the ways that meant she should stop, that she should not listen, that she was intruding—his voice dropped. It went low, almost too low to hear.

But not so low she could have ever missed it.

"Cassie," he gasped. "Cassie, oh god, Cassie, make me come, oh yeah my sweet girl, make me come, just like that."

Because, it seemed, it was only her he was thinking of.

Only her name he spoke, like a prayer. Like a promise.

And just for that moment, she could almost believe it.