A Beautiful Torment

33. Undateable

I dragged the duvet back over to the bed, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion. I could hear Wyatt moving around in the walk-in closet, trying to find a pair of suitable pyjamas to wear, and I forced myself not to look as I re-made the bed. I might as well have been asking myself to purposefully throw myself, head first, from a cliff for all the good my "willpower of steel" did me, because I lasted about four seconds before my eyes automatically strayed in his direction.

My stomach flat-lined. He was topless, the muscles on his back rippling as he reached over his head to pull a blanket down from the top shelf, and I felt my mouth run dry. I swear, the tips of my fingers actually tingled as I recalled smoothing the washcloth over his skin just last night, cleaning away the blood.

When his eyes swerved in my direction, probably sensing my gaze, I glanced away quickly, a hot flush rising in my cheeks. Damn, I thought. Way to be subtle, Isabel. I fidgeted with the blanket, smoothing out the wrinkles unnecessarily, before I finally gave up and crept over to the top of the bed.

I slid beneath the covers, my heart starting to beat a quick, staccato rhythm in my chest as I heard the rustle of clothes being removed from the closet. This was so ridiculously stupid. I'd slept in the same bed as him just last night! How was this even remotely different? I definitely hadn't been this nervous before.

Well, duh, my subconscious piped up. Last night, you still had a boyfriend. And – oh, yeah – you didn't know that you literally shared a piece of his soul.

Oh, god. I pulled the covers up over my head, despair surging through me.

"Isabel?"

I groaned inaudibly, realizing – too late – that he could feel everything that I was feeling. In that moment, I was more grateful than I'd ever been that he couldn't read my mind.

"Uh huh?" I answered, my eyes squeezed shut. Mortification pulsed through me.

When he didn't say anything, I pushed the covers off my face, blinking in surprise. Wyatt was draping a blanket over the leather sofa, his body now covered by a tight, black tank top and grey boxer shorts. I didn't know which was worse – seeing him topless, or seeing him dressed and just... knowing what was underneath. I wasn't stupid – my middle school health teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, made sure we all got a basic introduction to sex education before we were plunged, head first, into life as a high school teenager. I knew all about hormones and puberty, and things like abstinence and why you should say no when a boy tried to stick his hand up your top. And, at the time, her words had made perfect sense. Who the hell wanted a boy sticking their hand up your top? Of course I was going to say no! Yuck.

Except now, I had hormones and tingles in my fingers and thoughts I didn't understand, and it wasn't like I could call Rachael and demand to know what the heck was going on with my fourteen-year-old body. All I knew was that I sure as hell wasn't ready to do the things Wyatt normally did with girls and the thought of him sticking his hand up my top produced both horror and nervous-excitement in equal amounts. That meant I wasn't emotionally ready, right? Never mind that he already had, kind of, maybe, stuck his hand up my top.

"What on earth are you thinking about?"

I blinked, a hot flush rising in my cheeks. Wyatt was staring at me in confusion, his brows lowered in a frown.

"N-nothing," I mumbled, struggling to come up with something – anything – to change the subject with. "W-what are you doing over there?"

His brows rose slowly and he glanced down at the blanket he'd just settled on the sofa. "Going to bed, why?"

"You're not..." I frowned softly. "... sleeping in the bed?"