Hating more that I agree with him.
“You sure you want me to be your first?” He drifts his fingers across my cheek, sliding them into my hair, holding the side of my head, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Because after I take one, I’m going to want them all.”
I nod slowly, unable to look away from him. He’s got me in a trance, and I don’t ever want to come out of it.
“I’m going to make you feel so good, Birdy.” He returns his mouth to my ear, his voice a guttural whisper as he murmurs, “You promise to do the same for me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, a whimper leaving me when he pulls away slightly.
“Then I’m yours.” His lips brush mine. “All yours.”
The moment our mouths connect, I’m lost. He kisses me once. Twice. He hums low in his throat, and my body responds to the sound with a slow, steady pulse between my legs. I part my lips with every brush of his mouth, my breath catching when his tongue teases mine, then retreats.
Oh God. I want him to do that again.
His hand falls to my cheek, angling my head just so as we continue to kiss, his tongue teasing mine. Every gentle flick or slow circle of his tongue to mine makes me aware of my body. How it’s coming to life. Tingles sweeping over my skin. A surge of moisture between my thighs. His hand falls to my neck, his skimming fingers making me shiver as he tilts my head back further, deepening the kiss.
My body catches fire and I grip the back of his head, holding him to me. His other hand is at my waist and he tries to pull me closer, but our coats are blocking us. A frustrated whimper rings in the air and I realize…
It came from me.
He whispers my name against my lips, and I sigh, the sound full of so much longing, I’m almost embarrassed. But it doesn’t deter him. He slips his fingers just under the hem of my sweater, his hand on my bare skin making me flush hot everywhere. I drop my hands to his broad shoulders, testing his strength, and he groans. The sound gives me the courage to keep touching him and I run my hand down the front of his chest. Rest it right where his heart thunders beneath my palm, and I have a realization.
I affect him just as much as he affects me.
The car picks up speed, racing down the city streets, and I wonder briefly where we’re at. Where Peter is taking us.
I break away from Crew’s still-seeking lips, trying to catch my breath, and he kisses my neck, his mouth hot and damp against my sensitive skin. I think of my dad. The car he hired to drive me to the gallery this morning. How I never called that driver to pick me up and take me home. I’m sure he reported back to my father.
They’re probably worried about me.
“What time is it?” I ask, panting softly between each word.
Crew lifts away from my neck, studying me. His face is flushed, his mouth damp and swollen, and I lean in, pressing my mouth to his once. Twice. “Check your phone,” I whisper.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls his phone out, glancing at the screen before he returns his attention to me. “Almost three.”
A wave of panic washes over me, making all of those delicious, needy feelings disappear, just like that.
“Oh no.” I glance around the car, stopping to stare out the window, but I don’t recognize where we’re at. “I should get home.”
“Birdy, wait—”
“I need to go,” I interrupt. “My dad will be there soon. Or he might already be home. I don’t know. Peter?”
“Yes?” the driver asks, his gaze finding mine in the rearview mirror.
I can’t even be embarrassed that he witnessed us kissing in the back seat. I’m sure I look a mess. I feel like one. All rumpled and hot and flustered. “Can you take me directly to my apartment?”
“Of course. What’s the address?”
I rattle it off to him before I turn my attention to Crew, who looks more than a bit agitated.
And even a little angry.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, a sharp pain stabbing me in the chest. “I hate to rush, but I have to get home. I’m sure my parents are worried.”
Are they though? Maybe not, but my father fully expects me to be home, waiting upon his arrival. I’ve never defied them in my life, and I feel like I’m already in trouble.
Even though I haven’t really done anything wrong.
Crew’s expression softens, and he touches my hair. Cups the side of my head. “I don’t want them to worry about you. Send them a text.”
I shake my head. That’ll just open me up to a litany of questions I don’t want to answer. Not right now, while Crew can bear witness to the interrogation going down. “How far are we from my place, Peter?”
“Twenty minutes if traffic is light,” the driver answers.
“Thank you.” I settle back against the seat, staring out the window, my mind awhirl with all of the terrible possibilities. I can feel Crew watching me and I hate that I’m in the midst of a panic attack in front of him.
He takes my hand, linking our fingers together. “Don’t stress, Birdy.”
“I’m not stressed,” I automatically say, keeping my gaze on the window.
I’m afraid if I look at him, I might burst into tears.
He shifts closer, his mouth once again at my ear. “Liar. I know you better than you think.”
I swallow hard, not saying anything in response.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
NINETEEN
WREN
As quietly as I can, I creep into the house, slowly closing the door behind me so I don’t slam it. The apartment is silent, like no one is here, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Where the hell have you been all day?”
Yelping, I turn to find my father standing at the mouth of the hallway, right next to their prized possession—the giant Andy Warhol painting hanging on the wall.
I try to smile at him. “What do you mean? I went to the art gallery.”
“That was hours ago.” He squints at me, as if he’s trying to see inside my head. “You were at the gallery all this time?”
I slowly shake my head, but don’t say anything.
“Come with me.” He turns and heads down the hall. I have no choice to follow him, entering the sitting room where my mother waits, dressed impeccably in a sleek black dress, clutching a wineglass in her hand. Her smile is brittle when her gaze meets mine, remaining quiet.
She has never been my ally. I don’t know why I always think she might be. It’s a lost cause.
“How did you get home, young lady?” This is from my father, who has turned to face me, a glower on his face. He’s a handsome man. Slightly balding, gray at the temples. Hazel eyes that are always filled with concern when they land on me. I wonder if he worries about me constantly. Sometimes it feels like that’s all he ever does.
I think about lying, but in the end, he would most likely get it out of me anyway. Is omitting a few facts also a lie? Maybe not. “I rode home in the car.”
He lifts his brows. “Whose car? Because it wasn’t mine. The driver called me in a panic a couple of hours ago, Wren. Saying you never contacted him for pickup. When he went to the gallery, he realized you were already gone.”
“He went into the gallery?” Guilt swamps me. I’m sure it’s written all over my face.
“He drove all over Tribeca, trying to find you, and just happened to see you exit a restaurant with someone.”
I’m light-headed at his words, and I fall onto the couch behind me. “Who?”
Daddy steps toward me, thrusting his phone out so it’s in my face. On the screen is a photo of me and Crew leaving Two Hands together. I’m smiling.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen myself look so happy before.
“Who is that?” Daddy demands.
“Crew Lancaster.” My voice is surprisingly calm.
He frowns, shoving his phone back into his pants pocket. “Wait—Reggie’s son?”
“Yes,” Mother pipes up, “the youngest one.”
“I go to school with him,” I add. “He’s in my class.”
“Hmm.” He glances over at Mother. “Might be a better prospect for her than the boy tonight.”
She nods in agreement.
My mouth drops open.