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The answer was nothing. Not even my sister, whom I loved, but whom I’d been willing to hurt to get what I wanted.
I tried to get up, but the room spun. It could’ve been the alcohol or just Manning’s effect on me, but either way, I rested my head on my forearms and stayed put. I drifted to sleep, and by the time I opened my eyes, the dizziness had worn off.
I stripped out of my prom dress and changed into the cotton pajama set I’d bought for tonight’s sleepover. It seemed childish and stupid now, a pink, gingham strappy cami and matching boy-shorts. When I came out of the bathroom, the night sky looked less like a sinkhole and more of a deep ocean blue. The faucet ran in the kitchen. I followed the noise, crossing the living room. The green glow of the oven’s digital clock read 4:07 AM.
Manning stood at the sink in nothing but boxer-briefs, his back to me, an empty glass next to him. He splashed water on his face and leaned his hands on the lip of the counter. His torso expanded as if he was trying to catch his breath.
The moon was just bright enough to light some markings on his back. At first it looked like someone had drawn on him, but as I got closer, black ink made a triangle with three starred points. The muscles of his wide back worked as my eyes drifted over the simple tattoo, then his damp hairline, the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck.
Manning just stared at the running water until he finally flipped off the faucet. The drain gurgled and burped. Mesmerized, I reached up to touch the tattoo. He turned his head a fraction and spun. Within a second, my wrist was in a vice-like grip, my neck in his other hand as he pinned my back against the counter with his hips.
“What are you doing?” he whispered, voice hard, eyes black.
I forgot to breathe. His anger coursed through me like adrenaline, making my heart race and my nipples harden. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
His grip remained strong, even as his fingers loosened. He pressed one thumb into my wrist and the other at the top of my throat. “You snuck up on me.”
“Are you okay?”
The darkness hadn’t left his eyes. He kept me caged against the counter like he’d caught me breaking in. He shifted his thumb up my neck, under my chin, as if checking for a heartbeat. “You know what I’d do to a man inside who tried to come at me while my back was turned?”
I swallowed against his hand. For all the times I’d tortured myself wondering what it was like in there, I said, “Tell me.”
“It’d give you nightmares.”
For some reason, that made my stomach tighten, my insides clench. It turned me on, even as realization dawned on me—Manning was the one with the nightmares.
When something twitched against my stomach, his eyes dropped. From this angle, he could see down my camisole, and he did. He looked right at my breasts. “Did you dress like this while I was away?” he asked, his whisper angry.
I sobered. “Like what?”
He put his hands at my waist, bunching up the cotton and exposing my midriff. “Why do you do this to me?” he asked. “Why can’t you just . . . stop?”
My heart pounded. I knew what he meant without asking. Being around each other was as hard for him as it was for me. I hated that it took fear and nightmares to get anywhere with him, but at least he was here now. “I’m sorry,” I said, because I didn’t want to torture him, but I didn’t know any other way.
He lifted me onto the counter and slid me back until my head touched a cabinet, like he was hiding a doll on the back of a shelf. He didn’t let me go. His breathing labored, even though I knew lifting me was no effort for him. Something else made it hard to breathe. I put my hand on his bare chest, and it rose with his inhale. I ached to explore every inch of him. When he didn’t pull me off, I traced the dip his collarbone created. He had the expansive torso of a man, unlike the boys I’d been around, and his stomach flexed into a six-pack. I was in awe. Breathless from the world opening up to me. As I went to touch, though, he stopped my hand and put it on his face. I scraped my palm along his stubble. I was touching him without asking. He’d touched me, too. I wanted to rejoice in that, but I couldn’t ignore the anguish in his face. “What are your nightmares about?” I asked.
