His hands hovered over his blue jean pockets as he sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze coming up to meet mine. “I needed the walk.”
It was well past midnight, but I didn’t point this out.
Sitting next to him, I glanced at his hands before letting my gaze trail up to his face. He was watching me, his hazel eyes brown in the dim light. I’d switched on a small lamp, and the soft yellow glow made everything softer, more intimate somehow. I knew by the look in Heathcliff’s eyes that there was a lot on his mind.
“Did you mean what you said today?” he asked. “About … you know?”
A lump formed in my throat. “Why? Do you mean now?”
“God, I don’t know.” The words fell from his mouth, his gaze sharp and uneasy. “Do you have any experience?”
“No.” It seemed counterproductive to lie and say I did.
“I should be sticking with beers and racing my truck.” He was speaking to himself, the mumbled words tumbling forth unchecked.
My brows rose. “Is that what you did? Before you came here, I mean?”
“Not really ... well, sometimes. With a few people from school. We’ve got bets run, and a makeshift track past Hazard Hill.”
“Oh,” I managed, deflated. “Do you run the Hill?”
Heathcliff snorted. “Not since they shut it down after the last accident there.”
My chin fell, my gaze falling to my lap. “You don’t have to be here.”
The bed dipped as he shifted, my hip falling against his. “Yeah, I do. I can drive that truck all night long, throw back the beers with Brian and Marshall, and still not feel the understanding I do here. Rough rides are smoother when you’ve got a passenger who understands the road.”
His hand suddenly cupped my face, and my gaze flew to his.
“Kiss me, Hawthorne,” he demanded.
Our lips met, moving in a slow dance that was different from the frenzied passion we’d shared at the creek. He was taking his time, his tongue seeking entrance, his mouth exploring mine. My insides turned to liquid, my pulse quickening.
Pulling back suddenly, he stared at my kiss-swollen mouth. “Are you sure about this?”
“No,” I exhaled. “Are we supposed to be sure?”
He smiled. “No.”
I backed onto the bed, my eyes locked with his. He followed me, his body hovering just above mine, his arms holding him off of the mattress.
Slowly and efficiently, he began unbuttoning his work shirt with one hand, his other hand keeping him above me. “I’m not going to make love to you tonight,” he said abruptly.
His words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the flames he’d ignited. “What?”
The last button was undone, and the shirt fell open, revealing a lean body and cut abs, his jeans slung low on his hips despite the black belt at his waist. His body was molded by work, the kind of build I knew would grow even broader and muscular as he got older.
“Not tonight,” he responded. “Not with your uncle downstairs. Not until you’re a little more comfortable.” He rolled to the side and removed his shirt, throwing it on the floor before kicking his shoes off. “Lay with me.”
With a deep breath, I sprawled out next to him, our heads sharing the same pillow. The large T-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms I’d put on after the game of checkers with Uncle Gregor felt suddenly inadequate.
Heathcliff’s hand found mine, his fingers lacing through my fingers, his lips sweeping my forehead before trailing down my nose to my mouth.
“If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave,” he recited suddenly.
A surprised laugh escaped me. “Quoting Bronte?” My amused gaze swept his features. “You don’t have to be Heathcliff, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” He grinned. “What I’m wondering is why you didn’t highlight that quote in the book? I kind of dig it.”
“You dig it?” I laughed again.
His gaze cooled, his sudden serious expression killing the humor, turning it into something else entirely. “I do,” he let slip. “Your eyes keep bringing me back to you. Like two isolated tornadoes waiting to be unleashed.” His gaze searched mine. “The quote makes sense to me.”
I swallowed hard. “This feels too big somehow.”
He must have agreed with me because his eyes fell closed before reopening. “I’m leaving, Hawthorne.”
I grimaced. “You keep telling me that.”
“I feel like I have to.”
Pulling my hand free from his, I touched his chest. “You don’t need to stay. I like the idea that there’s more to you than just this town. It’s like I’m touching the wind.”