“Luke!”
Of all the things I can say, I choose to tell her, “My name’s on your shirt.”
“What?” she asks, looking down at her chest. Then she glances up, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Preston Construction,” I say because apparently she needs help reading. “My name.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not your name.”
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
“Is so.”
She spins on her heels and walks farther into her room, leaving the door open for me to follow. Which I do. Because did I mention she’s not wearing pants! Girl’s got legs for days and doesn’t even know it—this I learned the summer we were fifteen, and she showed up at my house in a bikini top and cut offs and kept asking why I was walking behind her, looking down at her shoes. I wasn’t looking at her shoes. Obviously.
She walks to her desk, hidden beneath the staircase leading to the rest of the house. “I think it’s dead,” she says, her back turned. I stand behind her, look over her shoulder, sniff her. God, she smells good. Her shoulders straighten, but she doesn’t turn around. “Did you just sniff me?”
I ignore her question, move closer to her. Just an inch. My chest is touching her back, her bare legs skimming mine. And I ask her something that’s been infiltrating my mind all damn day. “How far do you go on these dates?”
“What?” she breathes out. Her breaths are rapid, matching the rise and fall of her chest. Boobs. “Are you still going on about this?”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” I tell her truthfully.
She’s struggling to breathe now.
So am I.
She turns slowly. Oh, so slowly. I don’t budge. Not a bit. Her dark eyes meet mine through her glasses. “Do you want to charge your phone?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
“Yes,” I say, but neither of us makes a move to do so.
She stares.
I stare back.
Six seconds.
Eight heartbeats.
Her throat moves when she swallows. I zone in on the movement and lick my lips, wanting them there, kissing her, tasting her. “Do they touch you?” I murmur. Her gaze drops, and my hands are quick to move. One goes to her waist, the other to her chin. I make her look at me. “Do they?”
“Luke.”
“Where do they touch you?”
“Who?”
“Any of them. All of them.” Jealousy can make someone insane. I’m proof.
Her hands are on my chest. I like her hands on me. Anywhere. Keep touching me, Laney. She’s fighting against herself. I see it in her eyes. In her fists, balled against me. She wants to push, but she wants me closer. Choose to be closer, Laney.
She pushes. “I hate when you do this.”
“Do what?”
“Tease me.”
I almost laugh. Almost. She has no fucking idea. “You think I’m teasing you? You’re the one who answered the door without pants.”
“I knew it was you,” she whispers.
“Exactly.”
She shakes her head, her arms extended, palms an inch from my skin. There’s space between us. I don’t want space. I want her.
One year.
Tick. Tock.
She says, “You didn’t come here for your phone, did you?”
My lips twitch. Curve.
Hers do the same.
She leans back against her desk.
I lean into her.
Bye-bye, space.
I say, “I came here for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to kiss you, Lane. Because I want to wipe the memory of every other asshole who’s ever touched these lips.” I skim my thumb across her bottom lip, and her eyes drift shut. Her lips part. My thumb’s in her mouth now, against her tongue, her soft, wet tongue, and Jesus Christ, I’ve never been this fucking hard in my life and I’ve barely touched her.
My mouth waters.
My pulse pounds.
She sucks harder.
“Shit.”
She releases my thumb and her hand curves around my nape, pulling me to her. Her legs spread, welcoming me. My mouth’s on her neck, on her throat, right where I wanted to be. She arches her back, makes a sound that has my knees buckling, collapsing into her. She’s warm between her legs and she’s moving, searching, wanting. I finally, finally, go for the kiss. Her mouth’s open when I get there, her tongue warmer on my own than it felt on my thumb, and she’s grinding, grinding, moaning, moaning. And I’m falling, deep, deep, deep into her web, and swear, if she kisses every guy the way she’s kissing me I’m going to find every one of them and kill them dead.
I want to rip her shirt open, devour her breasts. Move lower so I can devour her some more. But I take my time. I reach up, undo one button. Another. My mouth doesn’t leave her. Her fingers are in my hair. Tugging. Pulling. She breaks the kiss. I miss her lips. Another button and I’m kissing her collarbone, listening to her make those sounds. Those damn sounds.
My body wants her.
My mind knows I have her.
Another button.
Then: “Luke, wait.”
I freeze. Blink hard. Keep my mouth on her. I try to stay focused on her. On here. On now. And not where I want us to be in ten minutes. Each and every one of her exhales hits me like a punch to the gut, bringing me back to reality. She says, “I’ve forgiven you for a lot before, and if this is some weird territorial thing because you realized I’ve been with other guys, then you need to leave. Now. Before we do something we’ll both regret and can’t take back.”
Each word is like rapid fire going off in my head. I try to stay calm. But it’s been four seconds, eight heartbeats. Thump thump thump. “We were supposed to have college,” I murmur, my mouth suddenly dry.
She isn’t pushing me away. Not yet.
So I keep going. “I was supposed to have four more years to make you fall for me, Lane. For you to see me the way I see you and now… I’m not ready yet. I’m not good enough yet.”
She tugs on my hair, makes me face her. She’s looking at me, concern deep in her eyes. “What are you talking about, Luke?”
“I screw up,” I admit. “A lot. I make stupid mistakes and forget important things, and as your friend, that’s okay. But I can’t be that if I want to be more, and we were supposed to have college, Lane, where I don’t have to worry about raising my brothers and making sure they get to all their activities. And there won’t be this pressure to train so I can break Cooper fucking Kennedy’s stupid high school records and get to all-state. It’ll just be me and you and I can focus on you so I don’t fuck up and make mistakes and forget important things like you asking me to meet you after seeing your mom and I’m sorry. But I don’t want to be sorry. I don’t want to give you a reason where I have to be sorry. I want to be better.” I shut my eyes tight and pinch the bridge of my nose because I can’t believe I just said all that. To her. Spilled the truth I’d kept secret for so long. Girl after girl, night after night, trying and failing at not thinking of her when I was with each one of them and now we were here: crossroads.
“Do you love me, Lucas?” she asks, and I can tell from the weakness of her voice that she’s crying. I wonder how often I’ve made her cry without knowing. “And I don’t mean like a friend or a sister. Do you love me and want to be with me and only me? Because I need to know that you do. You have to show me. Anything less and this will ruin everything.”
Of all the things I can say, I choose to tell her, “My name’s on your shirt.”
“What?” she asks, looking down at her chest. Then she glances up, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Preston Construction,” I say because apparently she needs help reading. “My name.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not your name.”
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
“Is so.”
She spins on her heels and walks farther into her room, leaving the door open for me to follow. Which I do. Because did I mention she’s not wearing pants! Girl’s got legs for days and doesn’t even know it—this I learned the summer we were fifteen, and she showed up at my house in a bikini top and cut offs and kept asking why I was walking behind her, looking down at her shoes. I wasn’t looking at her shoes. Obviously.
She walks to her desk, hidden beneath the staircase leading to the rest of the house. “I think it’s dead,” she says, her back turned. I stand behind her, look over her shoulder, sniff her. God, she smells good. Her shoulders straighten, but she doesn’t turn around. “Did you just sniff me?”
I ignore her question, move closer to her. Just an inch. My chest is touching her back, her bare legs skimming mine. And I ask her something that’s been infiltrating my mind all damn day. “How far do you go on these dates?”
“What?” she breathes out. Her breaths are rapid, matching the rise and fall of her chest. Boobs. “Are you still going on about this?”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” I tell her truthfully.
She’s struggling to breathe now.
So am I.
She turns slowly. Oh, so slowly. I don’t budge. Not a bit. Her dark eyes meet mine through her glasses. “Do you want to charge your phone?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
“Yes,” I say, but neither of us makes a move to do so.
She stares.
I stare back.
Six seconds.
Eight heartbeats.
Her throat moves when she swallows. I zone in on the movement and lick my lips, wanting them there, kissing her, tasting her. “Do they touch you?” I murmur. Her gaze drops, and my hands are quick to move. One goes to her waist, the other to her chin. I make her look at me. “Do they?”
“Luke.”
“Where do they touch you?”
“Who?”
“Any of them. All of them.” Jealousy can make someone insane. I’m proof.
Her hands are on my chest. I like her hands on me. Anywhere. Keep touching me, Laney. She’s fighting against herself. I see it in her eyes. In her fists, balled against me. She wants to push, but she wants me closer. Choose to be closer, Laney.
She pushes. “I hate when you do this.”
“Do what?”
“Tease me.”
I almost laugh. Almost. She has no fucking idea. “You think I’m teasing you? You’re the one who answered the door without pants.”
“I knew it was you,” she whispers.
“Exactly.”
She shakes her head, her arms extended, palms an inch from my skin. There’s space between us. I don’t want space. I want her.
One year.
Tick. Tock.
She says, “You didn’t come here for your phone, did you?”
My lips twitch. Curve.
Hers do the same.
She leans back against her desk.
I lean into her.
Bye-bye, space.
I say, “I came here for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to kiss you, Lane. Because I want to wipe the memory of every other asshole who’s ever touched these lips.” I skim my thumb across her bottom lip, and her eyes drift shut. Her lips part. My thumb’s in her mouth now, against her tongue, her soft, wet tongue, and Jesus Christ, I’ve never been this fucking hard in my life and I’ve barely touched her.
My mouth waters.
My pulse pounds.
She sucks harder.
“Shit.”
She releases my thumb and her hand curves around my nape, pulling me to her. Her legs spread, welcoming me. My mouth’s on her neck, on her throat, right where I wanted to be. She arches her back, makes a sound that has my knees buckling, collapsing into her. She’s warm between her legs and she’s moving, searching, wanting. I finally, finally, go for the kiss. Her mouth’s open when I get there, her tongue warmer on my own than it felt on my thumb, and she’s grinding, grinding, moaning, moaning. And I’m falling, deep, deep, deep into her web, and swear, if she kisses every guy the way she’s kissing me I’m going to find every one of them and kill them dead.
I want to rip her shirt open, devour her breasts. Move lower so I can devour her some more. But I take my time. I reach up, undo one button. Another. My mouth doesn’t leave her. Her fingers are in my hair. Tugging. Pulling. She breaks the kiss. I miss her lips. Another button and I’m kissing her collarbone, listening to her make those sounds. Those damn sounds.
My body wants her.
My mind knows I have her.
Another button.
Then: “Luke, wait.”
I freeze. Blink hard. Keep my mouth on her. I try to stay focused on her. On here. On now. And not where I want us to be in ten minutes. Each and every one of her exhales hits me like a punch to the gut, bringing me back to reality. She says, “I’ve forgiven you for a lot before, and if this is some weird territorial thing because you realized I’ve been with other guys, then you need to leave. Now. Before we do something we’ll both regret and can’t take back.”
Each word is like rapid fire going off in my head. I try to stay calm. But it’s been four seconds, eight heartbeats. Thump thump thump. “We were supposed to have college,” I murmur, my mouth suddenly dry.
She isn’t pushing me away. Not yet.
So I keep going. “I was supposed to have four more years to make you fall for me, Lane. For you to see me the way I see you and now… I’m not ready yet. I’m not good enough yet.”
She tugs on my hair, makes me face her. She’s looking at me, concern deep in her eyes. “What are you talking about, Luke?”
“I screw up,” I admit. “A lot. I make stupid mistakes and forget important things, and as your friend, that’s okay. But I can’t be that if I want to be more, and we were supposed to have college, Lane, where I don’t have to worry about raising my brothers and making sure they get to all their activities. And there won’t be this pressure to train so I can break Cooper fucking Kennedy’s stupid high school records and get to all-state. It’ll just be me and you and I can focus on you so I don’t fuck up and make mistakes and forget important things like you asking me to meet you after seeing your mom and I’m sorry. But I don’t want to be sorry. I don’t want to give you a reason where I have to be sorry. I want to be better.” I shut my eyes tight and pinch the bridge of my nose because I can’t believe I just said all that. To her. Spilled the truth I’d kept secret for so long. Girl after girl, night after night, trying and failing at not thinking of her when I was with each one of them and now we were here: crossroads.
“Do you love me, Lucas?” she asks, and I can tell from the weakness of her voice that she’s crying. I wonder how often I’ve made her cry without knowing. “And I don’t mean like a friend or a sister. Do you love me and want to be with me and only me? Because I need to know that you do. You have to show me. Anything less and this will ruin everything.”
