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“And this is why you decided to play with it?” I press. “The devil, I mean? Because you thought you’d find your mother in her?” I’m talking about Grace now. Paul had told me, in passing, about the turbulent relationship the stepsiblings had back when he spoke about her.
“I never thought about it that way.” He leans backward, smirking, the cynicism returning to his features. “I suppose I do have mommy issues. I had poor views about my mother, so I chose a woman who was just as lacking in the maternal department. What made you choose your devil?”
Leaning back against the headrest, I frown. “No daddy issues here, sorry to report. I grew up hearing from people that I couldn’t make it. That I’d never get out of the small town I grew up in. Pau—my devil”—I correct myself, smiling now—“was a worldly man. Rich, up and coming, innovative, all the things I thought would get me out of my small-town-girl rubric. His very existence in my sphere held a promise I’d lead a big, shiny life. It worked, for the most part. Because during the good times . . . he was great. The best.”
He tsks. “Too bad we’re not measured based on our good times. It’s how we perform in the bad times that makes us who we are.”
I stare at him in wonder. He is right. Paul was brilliant when things were good. But when we ran into an obstacle, I couldn’t count on him. Not in the places that mattered.
Our eyes are locked in this strange stare, and I don’t know why, but something about this moment feels monumental and raw. Suddenly, and for the first time in maybe years, I feel my womanhood acutely. Not just as a fact—but as a being.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, finally, though I can’t seem to look away either. It’s like we’re in a trance.
“Like what?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Like I’m raw meat.”
“You are chewable to a fault,” he teases, a ghost of a smile passing over his face. “All right. You go first.”
We’re still staring. Lord, if my sisters were here, they’d burst into a fit of laughter. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings.
It takes everything in me to tear my gaze back to the movie. A few moments pass, and my stare drifts back to him, only to find he never stopped looking at me.
“We should leave.” He straightens suddenly, his voice gruff.
“Why?”
“Because I’m about to do something we’ll both regret.”
I swallow hard, licking my lips. The dare is on the tip of my tongue. His eyes are hard on mine, waiting, assessing, pleading. I feel naked suddenly. The way I did when he looked at me in Italy. Like there are no barriers between us.
“I’m not going to regret it,” I whisper, finally.
“Fuck.” He closes his eyes, tipping his head back. Two things are obvious to me—he is attracted to me, but he doesn’t want to be. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I won’t,” I say, louder now. “Trust me.”
“Good.” He erases the space between us within seconds, next to me all of a sudden. “Because I never regretted that first kiss. Not for a nanosecond, Winnifred.”
He grabs the back of my head and jerks me closer, and his lips crash against mine. The kiss is tender at first, like he is checking the temperature. When I open my mouth, signaling my final surrender, he groans. His tongue wraps around mine, deepening the kiss into something entirely different. Hungry and desperate. The world spins around us. I can feel my grip on gravity loosening, but still, I kiss him even harder, draping my arms around his neck. And when it’s still not enough, when the center console insists on keeping us apart, I do the unbelievable and spring up, hoisting myself on top of him, straddling his lean waist.
He tastes of Skittles and Coke and someone new and exciting. He buries his fingers in my hair, which is gathered in a ponytail, before using it to pull my face up and extend my neck. His tongue rolls around my neck, tasting the sweat that still lingers on me from the show tonight. He makes happy noises I’ve never heard a man make. A mixture between a murmur and a moan. His face disappears between the valley of my breasts through my top.
“I’ve wanted to do that since Italy. Since I saw you on that balcony and you looked like a present.” His voice is barely a whisper. So much so, I don’t even know if he really said it or it’s all in my head. But the thought that he’s wanted me for so long makes me feel drunk on power. Vengeful against Paul and Grace, and so incredibly hot for him. I push my hand into his slacks and cup him. He’s blazing hot and hard as a rock. I watch the top of his head as it bobs. He is licking a trail, the outline of my breasts through my shirt.
