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“Well, first of all, you’re underage.”
“Wrong.” He made a game-show buzzer sound before grinning. “But you already know I’m legal now.”
“The hell if you are. You can’t drink alcohol until you’re twenty-one, buddy.”
“But I’m adult enough to vote, go to war, and have all the consensual sex I want, which is what really counts.”
Yes, I definitely knew he was eighteen. He’d given me a countdown every time he’d visited the bar where I worked. And then, on the very day he turned, he’d invited me to his big birthday bash, assuring me he’d make it “worth my while” if I showed up, which I didn’t do.
“You’re still four years younger than me, honey.” Or nearly four years, which was just too young for me. He was just beginning the crazy, drunken college era; I was ready to be over it and settle down. Our maturity levels had to be polar opposites.
“Damn.” He shivered and set his hand over his heart. “I like it when you call me honey. Makes all the short hairs in my undies tingle.”
See, right there. Point taken. That was exactly the kind of sophomoric comment to turn me off. Usually. Except, dammit, when he said it, it roused an internal shiver through me.
To his face, however, I frowned. “If you really think such disgusting comments impress me, you’re wrong.”
He shrugged. “Or maybe you really like my disgusting comments but don’t want to admit how much, so you say it’s lame to camouflage your true appreciation…for my comments.”
Damn, he was good.
But I shook my head anyway. “You are so delusional.”
“Definitely.” He winked. “What else you got?”
“What do you mean, what else do I got?” Did he actually want me to call him more nasty names?
“My forbidden status.” He snapped his fingers, encouraging me back on track. “You said first of all with the age thing, leading me to believe there was more than one aspect making me so illicit and exciting. So what else you got, baby doll? Lay it on me, thick and heavy, or you know, just lay yourself on me.”
I sent him a dry stare, even though inside, I shivered, feeling the word baby doll make parts of my own anatomy tingle, which totally unnerved me. Coming from any other jackass’s mouth, baby doll would piss me off. I mean, what a stupid nickname, right? But coming so playfully from Colton, it sounded, I don’t know, scintillating.
And lay yourself on me? Really? That should be a weak, pathetic, laughable come-on. But all I could imagine was crawling on top of him, buck-ass naked and laying it on him…thick and heavy.
And that felt wrong. So, so wrong.
So I glanced away and bit my lip, unable to tell him to stop misbehaving, because I knew he’d just keep going, probably stronger than ever, if he knew how much it got to me.
Except I couldn’t tell him the biggest reason why I found him forbidden, either.
I knew interracial couples weren’t such a big deal in the grand scheme of things anymore, but where I’d grown up, each group had basically stuck with its own kind. My friends would tease me mercilessly; I’d probably be too embarrassed to ever introduce him to them. And besides, with the dad I had, well...let’s just say I wasn’t sure how he’d take it if I ever brought home a white boy.
Then there was the fact I’d straight up been told once, “I don’t date black girls,” by a guy I hadn’t even thought I’d been flirting with, which had made me feel about as worthless as pond scum. But it had also gotten me curious to know what had made that prick so damn special that I wasn’t good enough for him or his kind. It also made me want to show him, to find some white guy who thought I was all that and shove him in that dick’s face, prove I was worthy of anyone I wanted.
Crazily enough, I had never actively pursued a white guy, though, not until I’d met Brandt, but that’d had nothing to do with kinds or colors and everything to do with how utterly perfect he’d been. Besides, somewhere deep inside, I think I’d always known he and I would never really go anywhere. He’d been more of a pipe dream because he pretty much possessed every quality of my ideal dream man: handsome, kind, likable, not full of himself, hard-working, and honest. So I’d had to try for him, of course, but I’d also been aware from the very beginning he was too good to be true.
Thinking about Brandt, though, I glanced at Colton. “I’ve dated your brother. You and I hooking up after that would just be...weird...all the way around.”
“Half a date,” Colton tossed back with a swish of his hand. “Doesn’t count.”
“Whatever,” I argued. I had been the one to ask Brandt out, to start the flirting, to visualize a relationship and daydream about doing dirty, naughty things with him. Turning to his brother after that would be beyond strange, and really awkwardly depraved.
Wouldn’t it?
I already felt guilty enough for even thinking about Colton the way I did, so yes…yes, it would be wrong.
“Did you fuck him?” Colton asked.
I choked on air before gasping, “After half a date? Yeah, I don’t think so.” What the hell kind of girl did he think I was?
