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Oh, God.
Unable to confront accusing orbs that had turned a stormy black, she closed hers tightly as her bottom lip trembled at memories of that night. Her, standing there with a smile on her face as she handed him the Solo cup.
Because of her, he had lost so much. Now, she had to add his virginity to the growing list of collateral damages, without having any memory of it. ABST.
A red flush covered her cheeks. She was an awful person who deserved his anger and disgust.
Her eyes pooled and a tear slipped unchecked down her cheek, and she didn’t have the energy to wipe it away.
Presumably unmoved, he continued his verbal assault. “And yet, I can’t remember one second of it. Something I have fantasized about for years, before and after you left,” he huffed without a speck of humor. “Nothing. Not One. Single. Memory.”
She felt his thumb skim across her bottom lip. “Don’t get me wrong, I think about other things. Things like lost opportunities…” He lowered his head, until his forehead was leaning on hers. His harsh words a juxtaposition to his light touches. “My entire savings that went missing that night. And now, I think about the fact that I have a daughter no one cared to tell me about. But the one thing that really eats at me, that wakes me up at night when my body’s rock-hard and I’m all alone, is that I remember nothing. You gave me nothing, Bird. Not the ability to hate you and not a single memory of physically loving you. I got—nothing.”
Pursing her lips, she lowered her eyes, vowing to keep silent. Reality, that was once a stark black and white, had turned a murky shade of gray, making her contemplate what might happen if she added more pieces to the puzzle. Told him everything and filling in the blanks.
But that couldn’t happen. Under any circumstances.
There was too much at stake.
If she couldn’t tell him what he needed to know, maybe she could give him what it was he couldn’t remember?
Before she could respond or react, his lips were on hers and she tasted the saltiness of her tears mixed with the intensity of his mouth. Her chest heaved and she could barely breathe from the dire, heaviness of his words. Instead, she kissed him back, gasping for breath, desperate to give him something. Anything.
His hands were in her hair, moving her where he wanted her mouth to be, his kiss growing in pressure and intent until it was painful. Punishing.
And she liked it.
When his mouth left hers, she drew in a sharp breath. The desire for him to touch her, to taste her, was overwhelming. She wanted to give him this. She wanted to give him everything.
Staring at her, as if searching for some level of sanity, his expression turned to what she read as oh-fuck-it and plunged back in. She made a breathy little moan when he forced her mouth open again and thrust his tongue inside. The intense heat of his body searing her soft palms as they roamed his hard chest.
Pulling back momentarily, he asked, “Are you scared?” His voice was raspy and labored. His eyes no longer a black storm but a hot molten lava.
“Should I be?” She suddenly realized that he had maneuvered her against the counter, still leaning back on her elbows, but with her back arched.
He placed one hand on the counter beside her elbow and leaned in closer.
Her heart was thumping a mile a minute.
Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.
His jaw was like cut granite and she wondered if anyone had ever told him that? Maybe now wasn’t the time to mention his jawline similar to luxury countertops.
“If you had any sense of self-preservation, yes, you should be scared. Terrified.”
Her legs were about to give out, but she’d be damned if she was going to crumble and miss one second of this.
He ran his five o’clock shadow against her cheek as he hissed in her ear, “Because the things I want to do to you aren’t the things of a young boy with a crush.”
“No?” she squeaked, wondering where that pathetically weak sound came from.
“If you knew what I wanted to do to you, you’d leave town. And this time, you’d never come back.”
The things he wanted to do to her? Was that like, tying her up, strangling her, and dumping her in the nearest ravine, type of thing?
He didn’t look mad. She knew the “mad Lucas” glower. Seen it many times. Having been the express cause of it. She had also seen “Lustful Lucas,” which involved longing, angst-riddled looks that, admittedly, were few and far between as he always seemed to mask them before anything came of those soulful stares.
This? This was something else entirely, a smolder that was beyond anything she’d seen before, witnessed or conjured.
