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“In theory.”
“You… you were different before you had ink. You’re more yourself now.”
“I’ve had ink as long as you’ve known me.”
She shakes her head.
I turn toward her, pull my jeans down my hip to show off my sic transit gloria quote. “Pretentious high school shit.”
“Excuse you.”
“For me. Not like I took Latin.”
“You wanted the world to know glory is bullshit?”
Basically. I nod.
She moves under the street lamp. “I… I have ugly parts too. Things I don’t want anyone knowing.”
It’s hard to believe. Kay is sunshine and cotton candy. She’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Hands down. I shake my head.
She nods. “I guess that’s fair. Since I don’t believe you were ever a bad guy.”
“It is.” I move toward her. Until my hands are skimming her hips.
She looks up at me with those doe eyes.
Her lips part.
She nods.
It’s like she’s begging me to kiss her, touch her, fuck her.
Her arms slide around my neck. “I like the guy you are now.” She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair. “A lot.”
“Kay…”
She nods. “I know.”
But she doesn’t. Because I’m not gonna say shit about how this can’t happen.
She looks up at me. “You… you’re—”
I cut her off with my lips.
She’s soft.
Eager.
Pliable.
I feel her everywhere. In my heart and my head and my bones.
My palm goes flat against her lower back.
I pull her body against mine.
Kiss her harder.
Deeper.
Fuck, she tastes good. Like mint and like Kaylee.
Her lips part to make way for my tongue.
Her fingers tug at my hair.
Her nails dig into my back, pressing the cotton of my t-shirt into my skin.
It’s like she’s begging for more.
Like she’s begging to do away with every layer of fabric between us.
My hands move of their own accord.
One slides over her ass.
The other slips under her t-shirt.
She groans as my fingers skim her stomach.
She arches her back to rock her hips against mine. Shudders as she rubs against my hard-on.
There are only a few layers of fabric between my cock and her cunt.
It’s too much.
I need her naked.
I need her on her back on that cold concrete bench, looking up at me like I’m the center of her universe.
She pulls back with a sigh. Looks up at me with every ounce of trust in the world. “I…” She leans into my touch. “I looked at your sketchbook.”
What?
“Fuck.” She jumps back. Covers her mouth with her hand. “I… Oh God.” Her eyes go to the ground. “I’m sorry.”
She…
What the fuck?
Time grinds to a halt.
I can feel every brush of the breeze.
Hear every distant footstep.
See every one of her lip quivers.
It’s written all over her face.
She saw the drawings of her.
Where the fuck does she get off?
Could be with you. She’s still here. That’s why she’s hinting at all this shit about being ordered around and tied up. She’s into it. She wants it. She likes that you’re a sick fuck.
Her chest heaves. “I’m sorry. It was wrong. A total invasion of privacy. But… if you want things to be even, we can do that. Look at my journal.” Her voice cracks. Her eyes fill with terror. “Anything you want.”
No. That isn’t what I want. I don’t know what the fuck I want. My head is spinning.
She knows how I want her.
And she’s here.
She’s into it.
My body is screaming for me to pin her to the wall. To push her jeans to her knees and plunge my fingers into her cunt. To growl you want it rough, angel? I’ll show you rough.
But my head…
My heart…
“I’m sorry. I just… I want to know what you’re thinking and feeling. I want it so badly. That’s no excuse, but…”
“How much did you see?”
“Everything.”
“And you…” My tongue trips over itself. There’s nothing I can ask.
This is the only reasonable explanation for her behavior the last few weeks.
But it doesn’t make any fucking sense.
Kay is sweet. Innocent.
She doesn’t want it dirty and rough.
She doesn’t cross the line like this.
She knows better.
“Do you?” Her voice is soft. Apologetic. “Do you really want me like that?”
The world is red. I blink, but that does nothing to help.
I pull my keys from my pocket. “Take the car home.”
“But—”
“Now, Kay.”
“Where are you—”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“But…”
“Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brendon
The next thirty minutes are a blur. I’m not sure what I say to the Uber driver that drops me off in front of Walker’s place.
I go straight to his apartment. Number three. My hand curls into a fist. Pounds on the door. It’s doing it of its own accord. It knows something I don’t, something about being willing to talk, about asking for help.
Walker mutters something. “If I owe you money, come back tomorrow.”
“You have a gambling problem I should know about?”
“Fuck.” Surprise drips from his voice. “Brendon?”
“Yeah.”
Walker pulls the door open. Rubs his eyes. Stares back at me. “Don’t tell me you owe someone money.”
