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“So here’s the deal,” she finally says, her voice low. It still startles me. “I want you to answer a question for me.”
She takes the bowl and the bottle for me, places them on the wooden floor, then folds her hands in her lap. She has small hands, I think, the fingers fine and long. And she has lips like soft pillows, I remember kissing them. I remember the shape of her body pressed to mine.
Shit, and now I’m getting hard. My body’s declaration of lust the moment it felt better. My dick thinks it’s a fucking democracy in here.
It’s more like anarchy, lately, more so since Luna came back. My mind’s a mess, my heart keeps pounding, I’ve sweated bullets the times I pissed her off, and my dick thinks it’s Christmas, permanently happy and up.
And then her words sink in. “What question?”
“It’s simple. Why were you always such an asshole to me? And to everyone?”
A snarl rises in me. “It’s who I am.”
“Be serious.”
I am, but she seems to want more, so I try for flippant. “Well, I discovered early that the more obnoxious I am, the less people expect of me. And that suits me just fine. I don’t give a fuck.”
As I say the words, though something inside me breaks. The words feel true. And yet wrong.
I rub at my chest, at the tiny pain inside, confused at what it might mean.
And she has stilled, her face a mask, though there’s pain in her eyes—pain to match the aching crack in my chest.
“Right,” she says, her voice brittle as she stands up and starts down the steps. “Take care of yourself, Ross.”
Leaving. She’s leaving.
I succeeded in pushing her away, like everyone around me. And for some reason, with her, I can’t fucking stand it. Can’t stand myself.
“Luna, wait.” I start to get up from the rocking chair, and my side hurts, everything hurts, inside and out, but I make it to my feet. “Wait, goddammit.”
I reach her as she steps down to the soft earth, push her against the old porch rail, panting and furious at everything and everyone, except... except for this girl.
“What? You got something else to say?” Her eyes flash with greens and golds, her cheeks are flushed with roses. “About how you don’t give a fuck?”
“No, I...” I shake my head. “Fuck...”
“Thought so.”
A growl rises in my throat. “What the hell do you want from me, Luna?”
Those bright, angry eyes drop to my mouth, and oh fuck, she licks her lips, sending my dick from interested to rock-hard in the space of a split second. There’s something unbearably goddamn delicious about her, smell of flowers and body made of spun sugar, eyes like fire and a mouth soft like oblivion.
I kiss her. Couldn’t stop myself if an army of ghosts marched by. If the whole town waded in with raised pitchforks. She makes me stupid with want, with lust, and something else I don’t want to examine too closely because it fucking scares me.
She kisses me back, her mouth as angry as her eyes, small teeth biting at me, and the last thread of my fraying control snaps. My dick is drilling a hole through my pants, my balls feel heavy, my whole body is vibrating, strung so tightly with need it feels like it’ll shatter.
Pressing her against the rail, I trap her, cage her with my body, groaning at the feel of her, finally touching me again. I cradle the back of her head with one hand to keep her against me, use the other to hold her arm pressed to the rail. Need her softness to pillow my hard-on, her heat to thaw the frozen pieces inside of me, to turn the pain to pleasure, to a moment of pure fucking bliss, unburdened by guilt and regret.
One small fist thumps on my arm but then I suck on her lower lip and crush our bodies together, her tits molding to my chest, my hard-on trapped between us, and she gasps and opens her mouth to me so sweetly. Her tongue moves against mine, a light rasp and pressure that gets my dick so painfully hard that I’m lost, fucking lost in her. I’m pretty sure I’m leaking in my pants, five seconds from coming, and not able to stop moving if my life depended on it.
She tastes unlike anything, feels unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. She’s the opposite of my life until now—light, hot, supple, strong. Chocolate sweet, burning like Whiskey.
Good. Too damn good.
But she breaks away, turning her head, putting distance between us without moving an inch. “Stop.”
Just that one word, and inside I rally, I rage, I tell myself to ignore it.
