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I can’t help glancing after him, as he goes.

Chapter Three
    Of course I can’t sleep. I try, but it’s impossible with Wade’s story on my brain, and then in the kitchen, later on, him hugging me from behind. Him whispering in my ear: Did you like the story?
    I felt like saying Nooooo, I hated it. I wish it would die a horrible, untimely death, and then I could just stop thinking about it forever and ever, amen.
    But instead I had just gone all hot and cold like an idiot, feeling his much-bigger-than-they-used-to-be arms around me, and smelling his rainy days smell as though no time had gone by at all. Only the thing is, back then he wouldn’t have whispered something like that in my ear. No—I don’t think he would have.
    Because…and here’s the kicker…it was definitely suggestive. There was something suggestive about it—I can’t deny that fact. His breath had been all hot and moist against the side of my face and my throat, and his voice had held a little burr of something delicious right down low, right from the deepest darkest place inside him.
    My clit had jerked to that sound before I’d even had chance to process it. His hand had spread over my chest—so achingly close to my right breast—and he’d pulled me so tight against him, so tight I could have rubbed my ass into the curve of his body and maybe felt something else that possibly maybe could have been there.
    It was there on Cameron, I think. I don’t want to face it too head-on because there’s this weird barrier in my mind, this weird urge not to embarrass him any further even though he’s never going to know I saw something just as he passed me by. But he’s a big guy, and, well, it’s not as though sweatpants hide a lot. And neither does kind of bending over and moving fast.
    Christ. Why the fuck am I thinking about Cameron’s possible erection in the first place? I’ve got sex on the brain. I’ve got sex on top of me and all over me and in the tiny grooves between my higher thought processes. Wade has poisoned me with his stupid, ridiculous story and now all I can think about are cocks and sweatpants and maybe getting up and going to Wade’s room.
    A blush storms my entire body whenever I let myself entertain the notion, but the notion is there nonetheless. I mean—that’s what he was saying, right? He was being suggestive. He was suggesting I get up and go to his room in the middle of the night—or maybe slightly earlier than that, because I’m sure he didn’t imagine it would take me three hours to stew over all of this—and maybe talk for a little while. You know, about old times.
    And then after all the talking: fuck his brains out. Just fuck and fuck and fuck his brains out. Hell, if he wants me to masturbate on a bed while he spies on me from the bathroom, we can do that too. I’m feeling loose-limbed and lax and up for anything, even as the neurotic side of me tries desperately to cling to my teetering mind.
    He doesn’t want you that way , the teetering side says. He was just being friendly.
    Only I know there’s something new here, now, and it isn’t exactly holding hands and sharing tales of happy pigs. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s almost as though I can feel it charging through the walls of this house—between his room and my room and probably Kitty and Cam’s rooms too—when I put my hand on the smooth, cool surface above my bed. Like we’re all connected down this great red hallway we’ve picked as our living space, every buzzing molecule in our bodies breathing life into the Professor’s weird old place.
    It’s even something weird—like the thought of the lush crimson carpet out there, gathering between my bare toes—that urges me up, and out of bed, and down toward Wade’s room. His is the fourth door on the right—mine is first, then there’s a bathroom, then comes Cam’s room, and Kitty’s picked one of the rooms opposite—and I know before I even get to it that it’s