Page 57 of Hating On Riot

The rubs on my back stop. He holds very still. He is barely breathing, his chest barely touching mine as it did before, rising and falling with each breath.

“Riot?” I’m nervous. Embarrassed.

“Are you on birth control?”

“What kind of question is that?” I ask, looking up at him, annoyed that he didn’t address my confession.

“Our moms got knocked up young, remember?”

“How could I forget? We used to all have dinner together,” I say.

Before the stolen kiss. Before my brothers caught on that Riot and I were secretly seeing each other, testing our feelings by being physical. We were the same age our mothers were when they had our oldest sibling. No wonder my brothers and his were overprotective. They didn’t want us to be parents so young.

My mother got pregnant with Tony when she was fifteen. Three years later, she got pregnant by a different man and had Cameron. Laney and I came five years later. Surprise, surprise, we have a different father from Tony and Cameron. Then, there’s our little brother, Christopher. He’s six.

Mom is knocked up again. Hopefully, Fred is the last guy. He’s Christopher’s father. I like him. He’s a big, burly, boisterous guy with dark blond hair, deep blue eyes that light up when he sees my mom, and an infectious laugh. He’s also a great cook.

My father is the opposite. Pitch-black hair. Eyes so dark brown, they’re almost black. Sun-kissed skin like mine. Strict. Stern. Stoic. He never showed any emotion toward us.

“I am. The pills regulate my period.” Why am I oversharing? “I take them like clockwork. You? Are you clean?”

“Would you believe me if I said I gloved up every time and my body count is low?”

“That’s not what I hear on campus. Explain.”

He gives me a sheepish grin. “It’s outlandish, but you have to keep it between us, or else the guys’ egos will be bashed, and you know how we jocks are about our egos.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t, but I promise him. He drops a kiss on the top of my head.

“What was that for?”

“Forgiveness. Tell me you forgive me for what I’m about to say.”

“Advance forgiveness is like an advance on a loan. I’ll be collecting interest,” I say, unhappy with him but also glad we’re talking.

“Okay, here goes.” He blows out a breath. “I have a bad rep, but my reputation for a high body count isn’t true. When a few guys on the rugby team are in the same dilemma as I am—still hung up on a girl from our past—we stick together and spread the rumors. It’s a shitty way to boost our egos, but I’d rather have a false body count than be ribbed for my long bouts of abstinence.”

Somehow, all I hear is long and abstinence. How long is he when he’s fully erect, and how long does he consider abstinence to be?

I blush at my first thought and voice the other.

“Eight months.”

I do the math. Four years. Twelve times four, divided by eight, is . . . “That’s six girls.”

“Less. You’re the only girl for me. The only one I thought about. I don’t even remember the girls’ names. I slept with them when I couldn’t handle the thought of you and Cooper. Jealousy ate me up. I should’ve been your first.”

My words echo the agony in his voice. “Why didn’t you approach me? Talk to me? Four years . . . ” My throat burns. I tear up. “I’ve missed you,” I confess.

“Aw, baby, I missed you too. So much.” He clasps my head in his large hands and presses a kiss to my Cupid’s bow.

My heart bursts with happiness. My tears fall. Four years of loneliness, grief over the loss of our friendship, and longing fall to the wayside and vanish like fog at sunrise.

“I . . . I care for you, Riot.” I set my hand on the spot above his heart.

“I care for you too.” He gets me on my back. His large fingers tuck my hair behind my ears. “I want you. Want to make love to you, Arie.”

I cradle his face. “I want you too.”