His Plaything(40)

Over the following week, I tried my best to do just that. I spent a lot of long hours in downtown San Diego. Going to class and my professors' office hours, studying at the library, staying out late with my friends—anything to stay busy and away from our apartment. I wanted to get my mind back onto my own life and shed the life I'd started slipping into with Nixon. Trying to bury or deny those memories would have been impossible; all I could do was give myself breathing room. Let my feelings fade naturally over time.

Although forgetting was much harder when I was still stuck living with the guy. Turning a corner and unexpectedly seeing his face never failed to reopen my wounds. But each time, it hurt a little bit less and healed a little bit faster. All I could do was wait until the end of the semester. I could handle that; it was just a few more months.

And who knew? Maybe by then, we could be something like friends.

***

On Friday afternoon, while I was sitting up in bed working on my laptop, I heard a quiet but firm knock. “Yeah?” I called, reluctant to leave my warm linen nest.

The door cracked open to reveal one blue eye. “I was just going for a run on the beach. Wanna tag along?”

My first impulse was to wonder what he had up his sleeve. But by now, I had started feeling pretty okay about seeing Nixon around the apartment; this was a good chance to test the waters by hanging out one-on-one. Being exercise buddies might be fun. If nothing else, I would get in a good workout today. “Sure,” I replied, “just let me get changed.”

“Cool. Meet you in the living room.” His eye disappeared and the door shut.

I hopped out of bed, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and traded my ragged lounge pants for a navy blue tank top and capri-length yoga pants. Even if I'd gotten a little more comfortable with Nixon lately, I still wasn't quite ready to prance around wearing a sports bra and gym shorts in front of him.

But my jaw dropped when I rounded the corner and saw him waiting by the couch. Evidently he didn't feel the same reservations about clothes as I did. Apart from his high-end tennis shoes, he wore only a pair of crimson athletic shorts that hung from his hips, revealing a dark trail of hair and the deep muscle-creases along either side of his lower stomach. All leading my eyes straight down to…

I swallowed back drool. Through the shorts, I could make out the outline of his long, thick bulge from across the room—and what little I couldn't see, my stupid, traitorous memory filled in for me. And the rest of Nixon was just as distracting. His perfect pecs begged to be kissed and licked. His thighs could cause traffic accidents. Every inch of his incredible body reminded me of all the sinful things he'd done to me with it.

Dear God, why me? It hadn't even been five minutes, and I was already cursing myself for agreeing to Nixon's request. That bastard was practically strip-teasing me; our friendly jog would be nothing short of erotic torture. Maybe a meteor would hit the Earth before we reached the jogging trail? I could only hope.

We headed downstairs and out into the hot, muggy September day. I had no idea where we were going, so I couldn't walk in front, but if I followed behind Nixon, his taut ass drew my eyes like a magnet. So I walked beside him, trying my best to ignore the warm, muscular body less than two feet away from me.

Surprisingly, it got easier when we actually reached the concrete path along the beach's edge. I could tell that Nixon had slowed down for my sake, but he was still Mister Fitness, and I had to concentrate if I wanted to keep up. As my legs and lungs began to burn, my mind lifted slowly out of the gutter. All that existed was the impact of my shoes on the pavement. The crashing blue-green surf just a few yards downhill. Seagulls mewing, the rumble of distant cars. It was almost peaceful.

“You thinking of going out with Logan again?” Nixon asked out of nowhere, breaking my reverie.

“Huh?” The question took a second to sink in. “Oh. Uh, I dunno. Probably not.”

“Why's that?”

Okay … zero to weird in record time. “Because I don't feel like it,” I replied flatly. Maybe that was a little rude, but Nixon's snooping had been rude first.

“Oh.” He looked like he didn't know how to respond to that. Just as I'd settled back into the quiet, though, Nixon piped up again. “You'll be done with school in a couple months, right? Any plans for after you graduate?”

If I hadn't known better, I might have thought he was chatting me up. Did he just suck at small talk? “Pretty much what I already told you. Start a blog, write about fashion and beauty, achieve world domination in five years or less.”

“You ever think about … getting married?”

Where the hell is this coming from? I wondered. Then it all suddenly clicked: Nixon was trying to mend fences. Trying to help us become the friends I'd hoped we could be. In that case, I couldn't get too annoyed with him, even if he overshot “polite interest in my life” and landed well into “nosy” territory. I was more than willing to meet him halfway.