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Resistance.
“Are you ready?” That fingertip turns into a flat palm, and it falls slowly to my stomach.
“Ready.”
He takes my hand and places it over his groin. “Me too.” Now, he swallows hard, and I go dizzy with the feel of him pressed into my palm. We’re standing on the sidewalk, his hand now resting over my pubic bone, mine over his arousal. I’m flooding between my thighs. My nipples are bullets. My lips are parted, my sight hazy, my skin tingling. I don’t want to go to the opera. I want to go to paradise.
I look up at him, pleading with my eyes, and I see the same level of want in him. “You masturbated thinking of me, didn’t you?” He takes my hand from his groin and brings it to his mouth, kissing the tips of my fingers.
“I watched us,” I admit.
“Me too. On repeat. And I wondered why the fuck I was watching when I could be doing.” He reaches for my nape and hauls me into him, slamming his mouth over mine and kissing me greedily, his grip of my neck harsh, his tongue violently lashing through my mouth. It doesn’t help our cause. But I’ll be damned if I can stop it. My body melts into his, my breasts aching against his chest, my body alive with anticipation. It’s a long kiss. But not long enough.
He groans and pries himself away, his eyes closed, his forehead pushing into mine as I pant in his face. He looks troubled, angry all of a sudden, and I’m wary of it. I shouldn’t ask. I won’t ask.
The sound of the front door opening has James’s eyes snapping open, and he stares at me. He heard it too.
I can feel her eyes nailed to me, and I swallow, pulling away and peeking cautiously out the corner of my eye. Zinnea is a statue in the doorway, staring at James. I squirm, the silence awful.
“Hello,” James says after clearing his throat, obviously deciding someone needs to break the ice, and it’s not going to be me or my aunt. “James Kelly.”
Zinnea’s face is a picture of indignation, and it kills me. God, this is horrible. I will her to find it in herself to be polite, to push away her grievances. But my aunt remains a statue at the door. And me? I continue to die, not knowing what to do. Her acceptance was short-lived. Just an act.
“We should go,” I say, taking James’s arm and gently tugging him back.
“Is there a problem?” he asks quietly.
“No, no problem.” I smile awkwardly when he looks at me, trying to force him away, but he remains unmoving. Then his stare drops to my wrists and understanding floats onto his face. His jaw ticks as he looks up at me, and I mildly shake my head, begging him to leave it. He shakes his in return, and I know in that moment that he won’t. He faces my aunt again. “It was consensual. Nothing happened that Beau—”
“Didn’t ask for?” Zinnea finishes, her nose high. I fold, giving up on trying to get James moving. He’s unmovable.
“Indeed,” James replies, reaching back and taking my hand as Dexter joins Zinnea at the door.
“I said leave her,” he whisper hisses, taking Zinnea’s arm. “She’s a grown wom—” He catches sight of us on the sidewalk and freezes, taking us in. I smile lamely. Yes, this is him.
“It was nice to meet you, Zinnea.” James turns us both and leads me to his car, and I look back, seeing Dexter now trying to get her back inside. I throw a pleading look that my aunt misses. Or ignores. I fear it’s the latter. I’ve never seen her so hostile. Yes, she can be a diva, or even a bitch when she wants to be. But never hostile. And I’m not sixteen, for fuck’s sake. Come on, Zinnea. This is too much.
Our eyes meet as Dexter pushes the door closed, and I hate the anger I see swirling in her usually happy gaze. She shakes her head, disappointed, and then she’s gone.
And I feel like utter shit. Like I’m committing a terrible sin. Like this is wrong. James and I are wrong.
“Stop,” James says when we get to the car, his tone warning. He opens the passenger door but prevents me from getting in, holding the top of my arm firmly. I look at his fingers wrapped around me. “You showed her?” He sounds angry.
“No, not voluntarily.” Does he think I offered the information? Gave her a blow-by-blow account of that night?
His jaw ticks harder as he stares at my welted wrist for an age, silent and brooding. Don’t tell me he feels guilty now, because I certainly don’t. But when he reaches for my arm, brushing a thumb over the start of my scar, I realize he’s not looking at the damage he caused, but the damage caused by someone else. You think you have more secrets than I do. I can hear his mind spinning. He wants to ask me so many questions.
