The Deal (Off-Campus, #1)(64)

Garrett’s expression is like a Wheel of Fortune spin, going from shocked to incredulous to mystified, inching toward intrigued before finally landing on suspicious. “I think this might be a prank, but I can’t figure out where you’re going with it.”

“It’s not a prank.” I meet his gaze head-on. “I want you to have sex with me.” Okay, wait, that sounds wrong. “I mean, I want to have sex with you. I want us to have sex with each other.”

His lips twitch.

Wonderful. He’s trying not to laugh at me.

“Are you still drunk?” he asks. “Because if you are, I promise to play the rare gentleman card and never bring up this conversation again.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m serious.” I shrug. “Do you want to or what?”

Garrett stares at me.

“Well?” I prompt.

His dark eyebrows knit together in a frown. It’s pretty obvious he has no idea what to make of my request.

“It’s a simple yes or no answer, Garrett.”

“Simple?” he bursts out. “Are you kidding me? There’s nothing simple about this.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Are you forgetting what you told me at Maxwell’s party? The kiss meant nothing, we’re just friends, blah, blah.”

“I did not say blah blah,” I grumble.

“But you said everything else.” His jaw hardens. “What the hell changed from then to now?”

I swallow. “I don’t know. I just changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because I did.” Aggravation pricks my chest. “What does it matter? Since when do guys cross-examine a girl about her motives for wanting to get naked?”

“Since you’re not the kind of girl who gets naked!” he sputters.

I clench my teeth. “I’m not a virgin, Garrett.”

“You’re not a puck bunny either.”

“So that means I’m not allowed to sleep with a guy I’m attracted to?”

He rakes both hands over his scalp now, looking equally aggravated. Then he takes a breath, exhales slowly, and meets my eyes. “Okay, here’s the deal. I believe you’re attracted to me. I mean—one, who isn’t? And two, you moan like crazy whenever my tongue’s in your mouth.”

I bristle. “I do not.”

“Agree to disagree.” He folds his sleek, muscular arms over his sleek, muscular chest. “But I don’t believe that you underwent some magical transformation where suddenly you want to jump my bones just for the hell of it. You know, for funsies.” His head tilts thoughtfully. “What is it, then? Do you want to get back at your ex or something? Make Loverboy jealous again?”

“No,” I say stiffly. “I just…” Frustration slams inside me. “I just want to do it, okay? I want to do you.”

His expression is a peculiar combination of amused and annoyed. “Why?” he asks again.

“Because I want to, damn it. Why does there need to be some deep, philosophical meaning behind it?” But I can see from his face that I haven’t convinced him, and I’m smart enough to know when to admit defeat. “You know what? Forget it. Forget I asked—”

He grabs hold of my arm before I can hop off the bed. “What the hell is going on, Wellsy?”

The concern in his eyes hurts more than his rejection. I practically begged him for sex and he looks worried for me.

God, I can’t even proposition a guy right.

“Forget it,” I mutter again.

“No.”

I yelp when he suddenly pulls me onto his lap.

“We’re not having this conversation anymore,” I protest as I try to scramble off him.

He plants his hands on my waist to trap me in place. “Yes, we are.”

His gray eyes bore into my face, searching, probing, and I’m mortified to feel tears pricking my eyelids.

“What’s this about?” he says gruffly. “Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll try to help.”

A hysterical giggle flies out of my mouth. “No, you won’t! I just asked for your help and you shot me down!”

He looks even more bewildered than before. “You didn’t ask me for help, Hannah. You asked me to f*ck you.”

“Same damn thing,” I mumble.

“For f*ck’s sake, I have no frickin’ idea what you’re talking about!” He inhales slowly as if trying to calm himself down. “I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what you’re babbling about in the next two seconds, I’m going to lose my shit.”

Misery lodges in my throat. I wish I never opened my mouth and asked him. I should have just snuck out of his room while he slept and pretended that I never threw myself at him last night.

But then Garrett reaches up and strokes my cheek with infinite tenderness, and something inside me cracks open.

I let out a shaky breath. “I’m broken, and I wanted you to fix me.”

Alarm widens his eyes. “I…still don’t understand.”

Not many people know about what happened to me. I mean, it’s not like I go around advertising that I was raped to everyone I meet. I have to trust someone implicitly in order to confess something so monumental.

If you told me a few weeks ago that I would be confiding in Garrett Graham about the most traumatic experience of my life, I would’ve peed my pants laughing.