“Yeah. You ride a motorcycle, take punches meant for a man and don’t even cry. And now, you’re confronting the guy who treated you like shit.” I fight to keep my shoulders up through the weight of my guilt. “Even though I’m the one who owes you an apology. And yet”—a slow smile curves my lips—“you blush talking about a kiss.”
She props her hands on her narrow hips, glares at me, and smiles. “I am not blushing.”
I nod and fold my arms over my chest. “No?”
“No.”
“All right, fine. Let’s put it to the test.” And satisfy my insane fucking urge to recreate it. “Tell me what happened between us a week ago tonight.” The fact that I know it’s been a week probably gives away that I’ve been thinking about our kiss, but there’s no taking it back now.
She lifts one eyebrow and bites her lip. “Hmm, let’s see if I can remember.” Her gaze slides to just over my shoulder and her lips purse in thought. “You gave me a ride to my place, I took a punch to the cheek, we went back to your neighbor’s place, and you tried to get me drunk.”
“Not the most accurate retelling of events, but I’ll accept it. You’re still missing the most important part.” The part that makes my blood feel as if it’s itching to relive it.
She takes a step closer and tilts her chin back to look up at me. “I was grateful for all your help, so I . . .”
I quirk an eyebrow, waiting and watching for the light of her cheeks to flood pink. “Go on; you’ve come this far,” I whisper. “Say it.”
Her eyes roam my face from my eyes to my neck and back up to my lips. Her smile falls. “I kissed you.” She blushes.
My dick swells and queasiness rips through my stomach. Her words affect me in such polar opposite ways it’s intoxicating. And even now, after she’s apologized and I’ve promised myself to avoid her at all costs, I’m gonna do it again.
I drop down from the tailgate and take a step toward her, dissolving the little space left between us. With the tips of my fingers, I hook her beneath the chin and tilt her face up to mine. Her eyes flutter, as if she’s trying to keep them open, and her lips relax. The bursts of air from her mouth prove that I’m having the same effect on her as she is on me.
“This looks better.” I run my thumb along the healing split on her cheek. It’s no longer scabbed and only an angry red mark remains. With a gentle pressure, I run my finger against her skin. “So soft.”
Her breath hitches, and my stomach threatens to unload. I’m wound up tight and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“You kissed me because you were grateful that I helped you.” I move my hand from her face to the nape of her neck. “Don’t know if you remember, baby, but I did it again tonight.” I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to want it. But fuck, I need it. “I’m thinkin’ you owe me another kiss.” My lips burn to feel hers again. I tug on my lip ring with my teeth.
Her neck stiffens and her eyes narrow. “But . . .?”
“Told you I was a dick.” I flex my fingers into her tight muscles. “You caught me off guard. Won’t happen again.”
She gives a tight nod and lifts up on her tiptoes.
I groan at her willingness to give me what I want. What else would she do if I asked? I swallow back the saliva that floods my throat and pull her up to meet my lips.
Just like the first time, we meet with a tentative brush. The warm, pliable flesh of her mouth runs along mine and lingers at my lip ring. She curls her lips around it and pulls away with a tug that makes my dick throb.
“There.” She backs away and smiles. “Goodnight.” Turning on her heel, she pulls open the back door and disappears into the club.
My heart pounds in my chest, half of me screaming to go to her and fuck her senseless and the other half looking for a safe place to puke.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’d gladly take the vomitous reaction if it means even ten seconds between Mac’s thighs.
I scrub my face and fist my hair. What the hell is this woman doing to me? My appointment with my therapist is tomorrow. Maybe it’s time we work harder to get to the bottom of all my shit, if for no other reason than to be able to hang out more with Mac without having to run off every time things breach the make-out level of an eighth-grader.
The memory of her soft skin beneath my hand, her rushed breath, and the honeyed taste of her lips. . . Huh. Thinking about it now is only mildly repulsive. Progress.
Eight
Vivid dreams, different faces
Waves of hate and lust in traces
Festering sickness, my insides rot
There’s no pill for what I’ve got.
--Ataxia
Rex
“Hey, Rex.” My shrink pops his head out of his office and waves me in. “Come on in.”
I stand from the leather couch in the waiting room, happy to get away from the damn flute music that’s dancing through the stereo speakers. Honestly, does that shit really make people relax? It gives me the urge to flute-whip a hippy.