Page 209 of Faking the Goal

Oh, fucking hell.

I yank my hand off his chest like I've touched a hot stove and push myself upright, which immediately sends a bolt of pain through my skull. Hello, hangover, my oldest and most reliable frenemy. My heart isn't doing much better, pounding hard enough that I'm pretty sure the neighbors can hear it.

Kentaro, meanwhile, looks caught somewhere between amused and unbearably smug.

"Holy shit," I say, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to two syllables and a curse word. "What the fuck happened?"

Kentaro props himself up on one elbow, and the sheet slips a little lower around his waist. I immediately drag my eyes back to his face, but that noble effort comes approximately two seconds too late because, sweet mother of all things holy, I have already seen everything above that sheet.

I knew he was built. Obviously. I've seen him shirtless from a distance before, watched him train, felt all that solid muscle beneath his clothes whenever he's pulled me against him. But seeing him like this, sprawled half-naked in my bed with nothing between my eyes and all that bare skin, is an entirely different experience.

His shoulders are broad enough to make the rest of his body look almost unfairly narrow at the waist, his chest thick and firm beneath smooth, pale skin. The muscles across his stomach are hard and sharply defined, disappearing into those deep lines at his hips that vanish beneath the sheet before my eyes can get themselves into any more trouble.

Fuck me.

No. Terrible choice of words considering the circumstances.

My cheeks immediately heat.

But seriously, what the fuck? Why does he look like that underneath his clothes? And why did I have to find out while hungover, confused, and apparently waking up after spending the night wrapped around him?

I force my gaze back to his face, but it doesn't matter. The damage has been done. Every inch I just saw has already burned itself into my memory with a level of clarity normally reserved for traumatic events and winning lottery numbers. I could probably close my eyes right now and redraw those abs from memory.

Not that I would.

Obviously.

Although if someone held me at gunpoint and demanded an anatomically accurate sketch, I feel unusually confident about my chances.

And judging by the slow, knowing smirk spreading across Kentaro's face, I wasn't nearly as subtle about staring as I thought I was.

Fantastic. I'm hungover, I have no idea why he's half-naked in my bed, and he just caught me shamelessly checking him out.

Really crushing this morning so far.

"You don't remember?" he says, and his voice has that low, morning-rough quality that should be illegal before ten in the morning. "Trouble, I'm hurt. After everything we shared last night?"

My stomach drops through the floor. "No. No, no, no. We didn't—" I look down at myself. Jeans still buttoned. Shirt still on. Bra very much accounted for. "We didn't do it. Right? Right?"

"Of course we did."

"What?!" I shriek, and the sound sends another spike of pain through my skull. I clap a hand over my mouth, then whisper, "What the actual fuck, Ken-chan?!"

He bursts out laughing—full, unrestrained laughter. The asshole actually falls back against the pillow laughing, the kind of deep, helpless laughter I almost never hear from him, and the relief that hits me is so immediate I want to kiss him and murder him in equal measure.

"I'm kidding," he finally manages. "God, your face."

"You are the worst human being on this planet." I shove his shoulder, accomplishing absolutely nothing because apparently even half-awake and hungover, I'm no match for all that muscle I was so enthusiastically fondling thirty seconds ago. "Do not fucking do that to me. I have enough existential crises before noon without you adding accidental drunk sex with my fake boyfriend to the list."

His laughter fades, his smile dimming slightly.

"Fake boyfriend," he repeats quietly. "Right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

He looks away for a second, and I stare at him, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. One second he was laughing his ass off at me, and now he looks almost... disappointed.