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“Like you borrowed it tonight?”
She rolls her eyes. “I wasfine. Until you jumped out of the bush like Ted Bundy.”
“I was driving,” I point out, taking a turn toward our neighborhood.
“Do you think that gives you less of a serial killer potential?”
I shake my head as I park my car in the first open space in front of our building. “You’re crazy.”
She leans her head against the headrest. “Says the guy who’s following unsuspecting girls in his car.”
I turn to her, taking her in. Her hair is tossed over one shoulder, leaving the line of her neck exposed. My eyes trail down all that silky skin, the bruise long gone.
The memory of that night flashes in my mind. Her soft lips pressed against mine, the smell of lavender enveloping my senses and making me dizzy as I burrowed my head into her neck. Her sharp intake of breath when my lips pressed against her skin, hard enough to bruise.
My mark.
Her throat bobs. I slowly raise my eyes to meet hers. Her irises are dilated, lips slightly parted as she watches me.
Is she remembering that day too? Does she remember the feel of my mouth pressed against hers?
Her teeth sink into her lower lip, drawing my attention to her lush mouth. My stomach clenches as she grazes her teeth over her lip, letting it pop.
“Jade,” I groan, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel as I fight for control.
This was such a bad idea.
Driving her home. Thinking about her. Letting myself have that one taste of her.
It’s not enough.
I should have known it wouldn’t be enough.
Because having Jade that one time is like drinking a drop of water when there is a whole ocean in front of you.
“Prescott?”
She’s not yours to have.
I shake my head. “We can’t.”
“I know. What did you call it?” She taps her finger against her chin. “Right,a mistake.”
She spits the words out, that fire blazing brighter in her irises.
“You’re my best friend’s little sister,” I whisper to remind her, to remind myself, to remind usbothwhy this is such a bad idea.
A strand of hair slips from behind her ear. Before I can think better of it, I reach forward, brushing it away. My fingers skim over her cheek, feeling her soft skin.
She sucks in a breath at the touch, a shudder running through her body.
Yet, do I move my hand from her?
No.
As if my fingers have a mind of their own, they slide down the column of her neck, clasping around her nape.
“And you’re an irritating asshole,” she huffs.
