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“Good girl.”
He saunters away, and Celeste nudges me with her shoulder. “He wants to sleep with you.”
“What?” I nearly choke on my last sip. “You think?”
“C’mon, June, you can’t be that naive. ‘Come find me later’—? That’s definitely code for sex.”
I suppose she’s right. It’s not like he’d be interested in going head-to-head in a riveting game of Scrabble. “Wyatt’s not really my type. I guess I’ll have to break his heart,” I tease.
“No? I thought you were into older guys.”
A flush seeps into my skin. It’s true, in a way. Boys my age have never really held my attention for long. My early high school crushes faded quickly, and I found myself more intrigued by my brothers’ friends whenever they would come over. They were so much more mature, engaging. Fidgeting with my cup, I shrug. “Not him.”
Wyatt stares at me from across the small living room, and I avert my eyes, my cheeks hot, and gulp down the rest of my punch.
The room spins a little, like I’m dancing on a pinwheel.
After three glasses of “magic juice” I think the magic is finally starting to happen. I’m bounced between dancing bodies, music pulsing through my veins as I sway and twirl.
I think I’m kind of drunk.
I’ve never been drunk before. Hangovers have never really held any appeal for me, especially with my rigorous dance schedule and the goals I’m determined to reach. Parties and booze will only slow me down, hold me back. Alcohol doesn’t fit into my life.
But it doesn’t feel half-bad right now as my inhibitions float away like deflating balloons. I’m sweaty and laughing, swinging my arms to the beat of the song. Celeste dances beside me, squealing as she grinds up on some guy, and we both grin wide, young and carefree.
“Told you to come find me.” Wyatt’s voice is gritty and suggestive as his mouth finds my ear, his body pressed up behind me.
I shiver just a bit. “I was dancing.”
“I see that.” Two hands roam over me, from my hips to my waist to the underside of my breasts. “Let’s go talk someplace private, yeah?”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before tugging me away from the crowd and leading me down a short, wood-paneled hallway. Wyatt kicks open one of the solid oak doors and pulls me inside with him. When the door slams shut, the click of a lock follows.
It’s fairly dark inside the cluttered bedroom. A small lamp provides faint illumination in the corner, and the blinds are pulled up, allowing moonlight to spill in. It’s bright enough that I can make out every detail on Wyatt’s face as he stalks toward me, a predator hungry for a taste of fresh meat.
I blink the haze from my eyes, my body still buzzing with liquor and music. “You want to talk?”
“Something like that,” he says, cocking his head to the side as he advances on me. “Don’t really need words to get my point across, though.”
Swallowing, I catch a whiff of cigarettes and bourbon mingling with the smell of mothballs in the room. My eyes are fixed on his as he reaches for me. “I’m intoxicated.” I feel the need to say it, to inform him.
To remind myself.
An eyebrow arches. “You know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“Who you’re with?”
“Yes.”
Wyatt’s smirk curls as he takes his index finger and runs it through my long, flowing curtain of hair, then brings a tendril to his nose. He sniffs it. “You smell like a pretty little flower garden,” he says, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “Makes my dick hard.”
My breath catches, my gaze dipping to the side.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now.
There’s a trace of adrenaline swimming through me. No one has ever talked to me like this before. Curiosity floods me.
