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His hand glides from my face to my neck, his index finger making a slow trek down to the dip between my collarbones, exposed by the V-neck camisole I’m wearing. “I changed my mind,” he says finally, slowly toying with the hem of my top.
“About what?”
“We’re not even. Not by a long shot.”
“Okay,” I pant, confusion worming into my sex-fogged brain like a parasite, making me tense up for all the wrong reasons. My mind automatically defaults to the worry sector of my brain, searching for something to focus on that I didn’t fix, like the comforter on my bed. “What do you want, then?”
God, why didn’t I fix the bed?
Panic swells inside me, a sail taking on wind, and I tap out the soothing rhythm in my head over and over, waiting for it to subside.
Boyd’s fingers pinch my chin, tilting my head so I’m forced to either close my eyes or look directly at him. His smoldering gaze burns like a wildfire, eyes glowing in the reflection of the moonlight, making my body turn to liquid and, momentarily, forget about the comforter being messed up.
“I want to try something,” he says softly—so softly, I can’t tell if I imagined it.
We stare at each other for several beats, neither of us breathing, our hearts beating out of control.
And then, mere feet from the coffee I spilled and the friend I was meeting with, hidden between two dingy buildings beside a rotting dumpster, while I struggle to maintain my sanity, Boyd fucking Kelly kisses me.
