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anymore.”
    I spend the next two hours working incredibly hard behind the counter, despite having exactly nothing to do. Under no circumstances do I look around the gym, especially in the direction of the free weights where Kris deadlifts five hundred and fifty pounds. Not that I looked long enough to see how many plates he loaded onto the bar.
    Nathan texts me more than usual, and I happily reply to him. Each time Kris sees me on the phone is a victory as far as I’m concerned. I hope he thinks I’m dating a rock star—no, two rock stars, and that I live a glamorous life that has no painful traces of him.
    My phone lights up with another text from Nathan, bitching about his favorite basketball team losing the game. I burst into a girlish giggle and type out a reply, biting my lip as if I’m replying to something sexy or scandalous. Kris actually sits up from the weight bench, wiping sweat off his forehead as he watches me send the text.
    You know, not that I was looking or anything.
     

Chapter 8
     
     
     
     
    The sports announcer freaks out as the Houston Rockets score another goal, bringing their losing game up to a tie. I don’t like basketball but I can’t exactly look away while Nathan thrusts into me from his place behind me on his leather couch. Couch sex is his favorite—although I’m not sure if it’s because of his view of my backside or of the television.
    I reach my hands behind me, squeeze the top of his thighs and peer over my shoulder at him. He’s biting his lower lip as he watches the basketball game. “Uh, hello,” I say, my voice bouncing with the rhythm of my body. “You’re having sex with me, not the Houston Rockets.”
    “I know, baby. I know.” He grabs my waist and pulls me further into him, grunting at his own pleasure. I don’t feel much of anything but annoyance. Usually I can mind-over-matter boring TV sex, but today my mind wanders places it should never go. Places that are boarded up and shackled, covered with DO NOT ENTER signs nailed there from ten years ago.
    My mind ignores the signs and I’m thinking of Kris-fucking-Payne before the next commercial break. Nathan’s hands slide up my waist, cupping my boobs. I wince as he squeezes them a little too hard, but he takes my gasp of pain as one of pleasure and squeezes them even tighter. I grab his hands and pull them away.
    “Too hot for you to handle?” he asks in his mock deep voice. The voice I guess he thinks is indicative of a porn star, but, well, I’ve always found it stupid. Kris and I never had sex—we were kids back then and although he was willing, I was ignorant to all things after second base and therefore had a deep-seeded fear that I’d end up pregnant or dead if my clothes came off in front of a boy.
    Even without having sex, Kris loved touching my boobs. He never squeezed them, or did this weird nipple twisting thing that Nathan does now. Kris was eighteen and as inexperienced as I was; he kept his hands above my shirt and only pressed my B-cups together, occasionally pressing his face into my cleavage during make out sessions in the backseat of his car.
    A ripple of pleasure pulses through me as I glance down at my jiggling boobs, now C-cups and tinged pink from Nathan’s rough grasp. My cheeks flush as I let out a moan at the thought of Kris’s face buried between them like the old days. Only I don’t imagine what he looked like back then. I imagine him now. I let out a groan. I so should not be thinking about him!
    “You like that?” Nathan asks. The sudden sound of his voice snaps me out of my daydreams. I glance down again and see Nathan’s hands pressed to my body, not Kris’s face.
    “Mmm-hmm,” I moan, tossing my head back like the pornstars do in the videos he keeps saved to his desktop. No, I don’t like it. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t exactly climb off him and say that’s enough sex for today, I can’t stop thinking about my ex-boyfriend and wondering if he would be