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I keep following him, too, as he walks around, shutting off lights, circling around, locking the back door, and walking to the front.
Standing in front of the open door, he waves his hand for me to go. “I said, good night, Whitley.”
Anger boils inside me, and I snap, “When did you start lying to me, Pope, huh?”
In a flash, he steps to me, so close, too close. My steps retreat, and my back’s against the wall. His hands slam against the worn wood, one on each side of my head. His nose, centimeters from mine, almost touching. His hot breath hits my face, the smell, intoxicating whiskey.
“I never fucked your cousin, Whitley Mae Belington.” He inhales deeply, and I swallow down the saliva suddenly flooding my mouth. “I told you in God’s house, of all places, that no man steps up to the plate for the first time and hits a grand slam. You need me to spell that out for you?”
“I … I think I, uh …” I’m stammering like an idiot because he’s Pope, but he’s Major League Pope, and he has me in some sort of tizzy.
“My first time up to bat was that night you stomped your damn foot and demanded it. I popped your cherry, Whit, and you busted my guy-men. I was never with Nelly in any way. I never let her give me a hand job, blow job, ride my finger, sit on my fa?—”
Anger surges through me, and I shove him. “That’s enough.”
He doesn’t budge. What he does is lean in closer—real close. His lips brush against my ear, and he whispers, “Your little dig about me lasting three minutes should have been your first clue as to how inexperienced I was. Now? Now, I could make your thighs shake, your toes curl. Hell, Whit, I could make you temporarily forget your name.”
A low growl escapes as he pushes off the wall and steps back, fists balling, jaw popping. Sapphire-blue eyes rake over my body as he leans against the opposite wall, checking out my boobs.
I cross my arms over my chest, attempting to hide the fact that my nipples are so hard that they’d be able to cut glass. I lose the fight in stopping myself from glancing down at his pants to see if he’s affected the same. He is.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
That’s when I notice his keys are hanging out of his jacket pocket, and I realize he’s planning to drive. My eyes meet his again, and his nostrils flare.
He swallows hard, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Voice thick, deep, so sexy, he says, “You let him kiss you at the bar. Gonna guess you and Danny did some of that too. I was your best friend, Whit, the one you chose to be your first, and you denied me that first kiss too.”
I clear my throat as I push off the wall and square my shoulders. I completely avoid the Danny bit and glare at him. “Kal’s my fiancé.”
“That’s fine. He can be that. What he can’t be is Nora’s dad when my name is on her birth certificate.”
“You son of a?—”
“Gonna stop you right there. You’re in my mother’s home. I don’t want that regret to be added to the list of all your others.” Again, he waves his hand to the open door. “One last time, good night, Whitley.”
“You, you … asshole!”
He bites back a smile, knowing darn well I don’t curse unless highly provoked—and I am that.
“I think the walk home will do you good. Calm you down a bit so that you can get some sleep tonight.”
“I highly doubt that, but it’ll keep me out of jail.”
Passing him, I look up and look him over, as he did to me, but only because a girl needs to do what a girl needs to do to prove she’s just as strong as a man.
I’m more than halfway back to the house when I hear him slam the door to his rental, and I clutch the keys that I snagged from his pocket without him noticing. I might be pissed off at him, but I certainly don’t want him to get behind the wheel and drive.
I glance over my shoulder and see him speed-walking toward me. My heart racing, I pick up the pace.
When I hit the back porch steps, my heart in my chest, I take the stairs two at a time. I quickly open the door and walk in the darkened kitchen. I lock up behind me and lean against it in attempt to catch my breath.
“Everything okay over at John Paul’s place?” Popa B voice comes from the hall as he flips on the light.
“Popa B, turn off the light,” I demand in a hushed plea.
“Why’s that?” he asks as he walks to the sink, opens the cupboard, and pulls out a glass.
“Because—”
