Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  “Because you have a life,” he says simply. “A full, real life. And it’s making me realize that I want one, too, because you make it look so fucking good.”

  I cock a teasing brow. “I’m making you want a life? That sounds dangerous. I hardly think your coach—and, um, all of Spain—would approve.”

  Fred shrugs, like it’s no big deal that he is, in fact, a really big deal. “Who’s to say I can’t strike that balance you were talking about? Perhaps I can have my fun on the pitch and off it, too.”

  There’s a joke here—one about me being included in off-the-pitch-fun—but I don’t make it. We’re skating on thin enough ice as it is. I have to respect Fred’s boundaries.

  I have to, or we’ll both end up doing something we’ll regret.

  “I obviously can’t tell you what to do,” he says. “I’ve been in a similar situation with my mum, and I had to make a difficult decision. I want you to have all the information you possibly can before that happens, so you can make the best possible choice, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But how do I do that?”

  “I know you probably have Valentina’s email—”

  “I do.”

  “—but I’ll try to get the emails for the other physios and doctors next time I’m at the training facility. You could chat with them about that internship Valentina was talking about—could be a solid backup plan for next summer?”

  I pull back, stunned. “That’d be awesome. But you’ve already done so much for me. You don’t have—”

  “I want to.” Fred meets my eyes. “You’re obviously torn up about what to do. I’ve been there, Rachel. The thing that helped most was knowing, deep down in my gut, that I was doing something I truly loved. That I was capable of being great at it. Because doing something you love, and knowing that passion will help you work hard enough to get really, really good at it, is a solid recipe for happiness. No matter what path you choose, it’s going to be fucking hard. But if you’ve got that feeling in your gut, you have what you need to push through the doubt and the regret. Let me do this for you.”

  Stop it, I want to say to him.

  Stop making me want you. Because you said you can’t want me.

  I meet his eyes. “Thank you. Seriously. For making this happen. And for talking me out of going on a murderous-mom rampage, like Empress Marina does on Tournament of Kings.”

  “Speaking of,” he says. “Shall we start our marathon?”

  I mean. Come on. Could this guy be any more perfect for me?

  ***

  Three episodes later, we’re huddled on Fred’s cushy couch in his living room, glued to the TV. I vaguely register the room’s clean, tidy gorgeousness—he’s definitely had the flat professionally decorated. It seems almost too tidy, though; the pillows too fluffed, the furniture too pristine. Like Fred’s never really used any of this stuff.

  The episode we’re watching ends on a shot of Queen Lorena’s dead body in a coffin. Suddenly her eyes pop open. Fangs sprout from her mouth. And then the credits roll.

  “No fucking way,” Fred says, throwing up his arms in genuine, enthusiastic distress. “No fucking way! Are you joking? It can’t end like that. This show is bloody killing me.”

  You’re bloody killing me.

  I’ve been a huge Tournament fan ever since the show saved me from a major Lord of the Rings hangover a few years back. Just when my Aragorn obsession was starting to get weird, Queen Lorena and her dysfunctional family showed up. I’ve been a fan ever since.

  Usually, I’ll watch the show on my own. Mom, of course, won’t bother with “campy vampire smut”, and my roommates aren’t all that into fantasy. I’ve never experienced Tournament with someone else, which I was cool with because I didn’t know any better.

  But watching it with Fred takes the experience to a whole new level. He loves picking apart the finer points of the show—the powerful female leads, the themes of loyalty and fate—even more than I do. I pick up on stuff I didn’t see before; it’s like seeing the story through a new pair of eyes . We laugh about the ridiculous preponderance of not only boobs, but butts, too; we discuss how awkward it must’ve been to film all those sex scenes in the castle moat.

  Basically, we indulge our inner nerds to our hearts’ content. And it.is.awesome.

  So awesome it almost makes me sad, because I know Fred and I won’t be watching Tournament’s new season together (it comes out in February). I wish, I really, really wish, that things were different—that Fred and I didn’t have lives on opposite sides of an ocean. I’ve met enough guys to know hitting it off like this is rare. It never happens. Not this quickly.

  I want to touch him and kiss him and come with him. But I can’t. Even if I could, it wouldn’t last. It wouldn’t change the fact that we were never meant to be.

  I clutch the pillow I’m holding a bit tighter against my torso, but it does nothing to alleviate the painful twist inside my chest. This is agony.

  “It’s addictive, right?” I say, keeping my eyes focused on the screen, even though the credits are still rolling. “Just wait until they introduce the gargoyles. Oh! The Princes of the Desert, too. They have this, like, crazy power of being able to see the future through the eyes of these killer bees. It makes absolutely no sense, and it’s amazing.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this brilliance. Now I know why the lads are constantly talking about it.”

  I grab my phone off the coffee table while Fred fiddles with the remote, scrolling to the next episode.

  My pulse hiccups when I see the time.

  “Shit,” I say. “Fred, it’s one-thirty! How am I going to get home? The Metro just closed. I have an eight A.M. class, too.”

  Fred turns from the TV to look at me. “Stay here. I’m not drunk or anything, but I did have a couple beers, so driving you is probably not a great idea…”

  “I can take a taxi,” I say, untangling myself from the pillow.

  He puts his hand on the pillow, holding it against my chest. My blood throbs. “I don’t like the thought of you taking a taxi alone at night. Please stay, Rachel.”

  I pause. Look at him. What does this mean, him asking me to stay? Stay in his guest room as a friend? Or stay in his room—in his bed—as something more?

  He’s looking at me with heat in his eyes again. Heat and want and pain.

  I know that pain. Oh, do I know it.

  I’m not sure what I should do here. Neither of us meant for our little day trip to last this long. But it’s going so well, and I’m having so much fun.

  I am so turned on.

  This is a bad idea.

  “Okay,” I find myself saying anyway.

  “C’mon,” he says. He stands up and offers me his hand. “I’ve got some sweats for you to sleep in.”

  I take his hand. It swallows mine, his palm warm and dry. Little sparks of heat ignite and move up my arm. I let him pull me to my feet. He holds my hand for a beat too long before he drops it and tugs his fingers through his hair.

  He’s going to have none of it left if he keeps tugging at this rate.

  ***

  I emerge from Fred’s bathroom in a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts five sizes too big for me. His number—seven—is emblazoned in purple all over my new outfit.

  The clothes are clean, but they still smell like him. Soap, sandalwood. Heat flares between my legs. I am wide awake. My heart feels swollen, tender almost.

  Fred is standing beside his bed, plugging his phone into a charger. He looks up.

  Looks at me.

  I attempt a smile, because I’m nervous as hell and still shaking a little and I don’t know what else to do.

  His bedroom is cozy. I try not to look at the enormous bed in the center of the room. Being in here feels unbearably intimate. I want to be the girl who sleeps in that bed with him.

  I’m not, though. I will never be that girl.

  “Your clothes are just a little big,” I say, holding up my
arms. The sleeves of his sweatshirt hang several inches off my hands.

  Fred’s expression hardens as his eyes move over my body. “Just a little.”

  “Look.” I do a sort of half-dab, holding the crook of my elbow to my nose. “I could use your sweatshirt as an invisibility cloak.”

  The Harry Potter reference is a shameless attempt to get Fred to laugh. But he doesn’t. The look in eyes just gets harder. Darker.

  My heart thuds inside my chest. What is he thinking? Is he mad? Does he want me to leave? I can’t read this guy tonight, and it’s driving me crazy.

  “I’d also fit right in at Queen Lorena’s castle,” I say. I’m starting to babble, but I don’t know what the hell else to do. I tug one arm out of the sleeve and wrap the soft material around my neck. “The collars on her ladies’ dresses—they’re huge! I don’t know how they fit through all those tiny medieval doors. Maybe they have their servants follow them around or something, just so they can crowbar them out if they get stuck.”

  Fred sets his phone on the nightstand. Spears a hand through his hair, giving it a solid pull before he lets go. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

  I swallow, hard, and clench my teeth. I’m shaking so hard I’m worried they’ll start to chatter.

  His gaze slides to meet mine. There’s a crease in his brow now, like he’s worried. Like he’s scared.

  My heart dips.

  Oh, Fred.

  I want to take your face in my hands. Smooth that crease with my thumb.

  I want to fucking kiss you until neither of us can see straight. But I won’t. Not unless you want to.

  My pulse is thumping.

  The breath catches in my throat when he crosses the room and reaches for me, towering over me. He’s so damn huge. He’s close enough that I can see the stubble dotting his chin; the hair growing there is so blond it’s almost translucent.

  The look in his eyes—it’s violent. Dark. So open and honest it’s hard to look back.

  I didn’t know feelings could be so excruciatingly real until this moment.

  I didn’t know people could be so real with each other.

  I struggle to breathe. The relief that floods my chest is crushing. The relief, and the anguish, too.

  I just found what I’ve been looking for. I found real. I found something true in a world full of bullshit.

  Of course I found that truth in someone I can’t have.

  Fred slowly—carefully—unwinds the sleeve from around my neck. His small touches raise goosebumps on my arms and legs. What I would give for him to touch me like this all over.

  My eyes flutter shut. My body screams.

  We can’t be together.

  But that doesn’t stop me from wanting Fred to burn me down.

  That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t let him turn me inside if he wanted to.

  Chapter 8

  Fred

  Rachel trembles with the effort to keep tabs on the desire pooling between us. She wants to touch me as much as I want to touch her.

  But she doesn’t. She keeps her arms glued to her sides, eyes screwed shut as she stands in front of me, hardly daring to breathe.

  The effort is killing her. Just like it’s killing me to stand here, the floral scent of her shampoo filling my head.

  Still, she doesn’t touch me.

  She’s respecting my boundaries. She’s respecting me. And she’s doing it while cracking nerdy jokes about Harry Potter and my new obsession, Tournament of Kings.

  In other words, she’s bloody perfect.

  Perfect for me.

  I’ve tried—hell, have I tried—to be smart with her. To not let her in. But how can I not let this girl in when we’re clearly made out of the same stuff?

  I should’ve known my fucking rules would go out the window the minute this girl started talking patellar dislocations and beer at Olivier’s party.

  I should’ve known I’d break every rule and cross every line with Rachel.

  I should’ve known she’d be different, right from the start.

  All my life, I’ve worn layers of armor to protect me—protect my heart—from girls who wouldn’t stick around for the long haul. I promised myself I wouldn’t take it off until I met my forever girl.

  But here I am, taking it off for the girl who’s leaving in three weeks’ time.

  Here I am, tucking her hair behind her ear, watching the sinews of her throat move as she swallows.

  I’m still scared shitless about what’s going to happen at the end of December. Now, though, the thought of not experiencing everything I possibly can with Rachel in the small amount of time we have—that scares me more.

  I’ve been hanging on to this v-card for a while. Who better to swipe it than the girl who makes me feel more at home—who likes me for me, no matter how dorky I am—than I have since I left Germany?

  I take her face in my hand, cupping her cheek. Her skin is warm. Smooth. She draws a sharp breath.

  “Hey,” I say, softly. “Hey, love. Open your eyes.”

  Rachel swallows again. Then she does as I tell her, revealing black, wet eyes.

  “You’re shaking,” I say.

  “So are you,” she says.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “I know.”

  “This is so not okay, Fred.”

  “I know,” I repeat. I pull my thumb across her bottom lip. Her eyes go soft. “For the record, I would gladly crowbar you out of a doorway in High Castle.”

  She grins, slowly, like she’s savoring it. “Always such a gentleman.”

  “My mum raised me right.”

  “She certainly did.”

  I search her eyes. Her grin fades. My heart pounds.

  “Yes,” she says to my silent question. Her eyes move to my mouth. “Yes, Fred. Please.”

  I adjust my hand on her face, rocking her in time to my movements. I bend my neck; she does up on her toes, closing her eyes. I close mine, too.

  And then I press my lips to hers. Her mouth is soft, hot, so bloody perfect I groan. For several heartbeats, I keep the kiss small and clean. I want to savor the feel of her. The taste.

  But my blood is rioting inside my skin, and soon enough impatience takes over. I’ve wanted to do this all day. I can’t help myself.

  I tilt my head and move my lips, opening hers to me. Electricity bolts through me as my mouth slants over her mouth, every corner of my being blinking awake, throbbing with need. Rachel tilts her head, too, deepening the kiss. I drink her in, the taste of her lips—chapstick, her—the smell of her skin. I drink and I give slowly, thoroughly, and she takes.

  I bury my fingers in her hair. I haven’t kissed a girl in ages, but even I know it’s never this good on the first go round. It’s never this deep, this sweet.

  I want to kiss her like this for hours.

  I fall into her, giving, giving, exploring her mouth and her tongue and her lips slowly, like we’ve got all the time in the world. I nudge her with my nose, wanting more, wanting to deepen the kiss even further. Now that this is happening—now that I’ve let myself cross a line—there is so much I want to do and know and learn that I don’t know where to start.

  Her body rises to meet my kiss. Her hands uncurl at my sides; she holds me just above my hips. She turns her head in my hands, changing the angle of our mouths. She’s sexy and soft. In this moment, she is mine and I am hers. I’ve never…never felt so possessive of someone, or so possessed myself.

  I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this for so long.

  I drink her in like a man dying of thirst.

  Because that’s what I’ve been all this time. A man dying of thirst. And now I finally get to drink my fill of Rachel’s sweetness.

  To hell with my rules. This girl, this bloody moment, makes breaking them worth it.

  I step forward, tucking her body against mine as I guide both her legs between mine. Our hips meet.

  I tug at her bottom lip.

  She moans. The feminine, almost desperate s
ound sends a rush of sensation straight to the head of my dick.

  I back her toward my bed.

  ***

  Rachel

  Fred’s kiss is hard and soft all at once; slow and fast, patient and piqued. It’s making me dizzy in the best, the best, the best way.

  He holds nothing back. He doesn’t try too hard, or put any cheesy moves on me. He’s just kissing me, touching me, adoring my body, his only agenda our enjoyment.

  He savors my bottom lip between my teeth. Heaviness gathers between my legs. My knees buckle.

  Like he can read my body like a book, he steps into me, nudging his hips against my hips, using his own legs to hold me up. It’s sexy and it’s cocky and I like it too much.

  I like this guy—this guy I can’t fucking have—way too much.

  I could kiss him for ages, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

  I reach behind me for the bed, but before I find it, Fred curls an arm around my waist and lifts me, tossing me gently onto the bed. I gasp; he smiles; my heart and my need feel several sizes too big for my body as I watch him climb on top of me, over me, blocking out the rest of the world.

  I sink into the fluffy duvet. My back almost aches it’s so comfortable.

  He supports his weight on his hands, which are on either side of my head. I run my hands up the length of his forearms. They’re huge, rigid with muscle, a roadmap of thick, ropey veins taught against his skin.

  Fred brushes a wisp of hair from my forehead. He smiles, and the way his eyes get all squinty makes my pulse dance.

  “You taste so fucking good, love,” he says, and then his mouth is on my mouth and his lips are moving in that deep, passionate way of his. Behind my closed eyes I feel like I’m falling, falling into his caresses, dizzy and terrified and turned on. His weight comes down on me, bit by bit, making me breathless, holding me down.

  I’m greedy for the feel of him. I grab fistfuls of his shirt and try to pull him even further on top of me.