Page 69 of Trailer Trash

He doesn’t look hurt in the slightest. “No.”

“No?”

“No. I won’t be forgettable. You haven’t been fucked in two years. I won’t be your sloppy, no orgasm memory in a dirty place.”

I stare, my chest rising and falling fast. I try to answer, but nothing comes out. He wants me to remember him. Really remember him.

He takes my hand. “We’ll go to your place.”

We walk out.

I hold my breath.

I’m doing this. I’m going home — to my trailer — with Killian.

Oh, my God.

18

Harlow

Killian shoves me into a cab and leaves his car downtown.

I know why.

When I stiffen on the ride home, he kisses me, pets me, and whispers in my ear so smoothly that chills race down my spine. He makes it impossible to think about anything but him — not what comes afterward.

The key turns and we step inside my place. I brace myself, unsure of what comes next. I don’t do hookups. I don’t bring guys back to my place. This is crazy.

Killian isn’t nervous.

He kicks off his shoes, shirt flies to a chair.

I fumble with my phone, turning on a random playlist simply called ‘love songs.’

“Do you like—”

Suddenly, I’m pressed against a wall, and his mouth is on me.

I’m shaking, still clutching the phone between us.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.

“I’m freaking out,” I exhale.

He holds back a laugh. “Why, you trust me.”

It isn’t a question.

Suddenly, I’m in the air as Killian lobs me over his shoulder, carrying me like I’m weightless.

I’m not.

I dangle there, my only view of the floor and his cute ass. He smacks my hip and heads for the bedroom.

He lightly tosses me onto the bed. The phone flies from my hands. My dress rides up, and reflexively, I try to tug it back down. Killian kneels between my legs, watching me panic.

“You poor thing,” he says, deep.