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Oh, shit, I think I do. He makes me throb deep between my thighs, makes my heart rate rocket when he looks at me in that hard, piercing way or when his eyes dance with suppressed humor.
The way everything goes molten when he eyes me the times he doesn’t think I see. Eyes me like he wants to devour me.
I slam the fridge, set the glass down with a click on the counter, and then turn and go to my room, the only bedroom.
Even though it’s not super late, I climb into bed and turn out the lights.
What the hell am I meant to do?
What do I dare do?
It’s a question worth a fortune in answers.
There’s only one answer in my brain, bright and overwhelming.
Go for it.
Go for it? What is wrong with my brain, anyway?
The man’s not my type, no matter what my hormones scream, and I don’t particularly like him. That part might be based on the fact he bosses me around, and I’m being a little childish, but I don’t care. He rubs me up the wrong way . . . or is that the right?
I take a breath and look out the window at the changing landscape of Dallas as Tizio drives heading in the direction of the college the next morning.
He doesn’t want me. Sure, he kissed me back and did that thing with his tongue and looks at me, but only because I kissed him, I taunted and teased.
The air is thick and heavy around me, and I can almost feel the layer of annoyance from him. It’s a low wave that licks at my skin.
“It’s not I’m against the silent treatment, it makes a nice fucking change,” Tizio says, “but the pout’s so big it’s a wonder I can see the road ahead.”
I exhale heavily. “I’m not pouting.”
“Sounds like a pout.”
“Well, it isn’t. Not everyone wants you, Tizio.”
He laughs. “Don’t they? And here I fucking was, about to apply for sexiest man.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
“Because you keep pushing all the wrong boundaries.”
His muttered words are so soft, and they clang like bells in me. “There are right boundaries?”
“Don’t, okay? You’re a kid.”
“Twenty-two.” I look at him, my self-pity suddenly evaporating.
It’s still hard being so close to him because he makes everything buzz and jumble like a low-level electric current moving through me, borderline shock. The car’s too small, he’s too big, and this . . . whatever it is . . . it’s real. Because as I think about it with his words in my head about boundaries, it clicks into place.
He might not want to get me roses or ask me to go steady—a thought that almost makes me giggle—or even want to take anything further, but I could flirt, strip naked, and rub myself all over him, and he wouldn’t do a thing if he weren’t interested in some level.
He wouldn’t have kissed me back like he wanted to eat me. He wouldn’t have let me ride his hand to orgasm if he didn’t desire me. And yeah, he wouldn’t have touched or licked my skin if he thought of me as a kid.
He’s pushing that idea on me to make me go away.
“And?” I turn as he shakes his head, eyes glued to the road. “I’m fucking thirty-six. That’s not even in your fucking wheelhouse, Karlee.”
“We don’t have to like each other to want.”
