Zane loves watching me lick popsicles. So I buy a chocolate cone instead. Doesn’t feel fair to eat a popsicle without him watching.
That’s it. I’m officially sick. Hooked. Smitten. Nuts about this boy.
Jesus.
‘Just call me Zane,’ I think I hear his teasing voice in my ears, and my body tightens down low just as my mouth tugs into a smile.
Yep. Officially in love.
The day drags. The picnic drags. Time drags. My cell is on, and I hope it stays on. I left it charging all morning. It says the time is four in the afternoon, and although the park is beautiful in the golden sunlight, the guys are talking about Dylan, and I want to go home. I cooked earlier, and I want to set up the table. Make it look nice for when he arrives.
I start when I realize what I mean by home is Zane’s apartment.
Get real, Dakota. You’ve only been staying with him, what, four days?
The next thought is even more absurd.
Home is where Zane is.
How crazy is that?
I get up and grab my purse. “Hey, guys, got to go.”
“Why so soon?” Tessa whines and makes a grab for me.
“Stay a bit longer,” Tyler agrees, his arms around Erin.
“Cut it out, guys.” Audrey gives me a shrewd glance from her perch on Asher’s lap. “Zane may be back by now, right?”
I let out a long breath, shifting from foot to foot. God, I hope so.
“How is he?” Erin leans forward, her dark eyes narrowing. “It’s like he fell off the face of the earth. I’ve called him many times to do something together, but he either doesn’t answer or says he’s busy.”
Torn, I look from her to Audrey. Erin is Zane’s friend, and maybe I should tell her about my worries—then again, if Zane doesn’t want to tell her, who am I to spill his secrets? Besides, I really want to go home in case he’s back.
“He’s okay,” Audrey says.
“His sister’s sick,” Asher says at the same time. “Dakota will tell us if there’s anything to be worried about. Right, Dakota?”
“Yeah, of course.” And I leave as fast as my feet can take me.
As soon as I enter the apartment, I know Zane is back. There’s a jacket thrown on the sofa, a bottle of amber liquid on the table and a half-empty glass.
I frown as I pad inside and close the door behind me with a soft click. I approach the sofa. Drinking already? This doesn’t look good.
A noise makes me look up, and there he is, standing at the kitchen door. He’s dressed only in his worn jeans and his ink, looking tired and drop-dead gorgeous. His almond-shaped eyes light up when he sees me.
“Missed you, girl,” he says quietly and pushes off the doorjamb.
Missed you, too, I think, but my lips won’t move. My gaze snags on his bare chest.
Is he doing it on purpose? Taking off his shirt to render me speechless? All that smooth, inked skin stretched over taut muscle, the studs glinting in his brown nipples, the thin, dark trail of hairs leading into his low-slung waistband…
Whoa. I suddenly feel in desperate need of a cold shower.
I force myself to snap out of the eye-candy feast. “The guys were asking about you. About your sister. How is she?”
He flinches, a tiny recoil, and the blood drains from his face. Instead of replying, he moves toward the coffee table and grabs the whiskey bottle.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a glass or two.”
“Have you eaten today?” I take a step toward him, and he freezes in the process of unscrewing the bottle.
“Can’t remember,” he whispers.
Worry makes my gut clench. “I made food. You need to eat to sober up.”
His hand tightens around the bottle, as if he wants to crush it in his fist. “Maybe I don’t wanna fucking sober up.”
I swallow hard, studying him more carefully. His face is drawn with exhaustion, as if he hasn’t slept since he left the apartment yesterday morning, and there’s a familiar shadow in his eyes. I’ve seen it before—after the episode at the park, after his flashbacks, after his nightmares. A shadow of pain.
I clench my hands, unclench them. Take a step in his direction, and another. He watches me warily as I reach for his hand and clasp it in mine.
“I made you seafood risotto,” I whisper. “Erin said you like seafood.”
He’s still as if made of stone, his dark eyes on my lips, his body tense.
I inch my other hand up his arm and grip his bicep. I don’t know why, but I think he’s not ready for a hug right now. Not ready for anyone to get too close. He’s like a wild animal, trapped and about to bolt.
“It’s spicy,” I go on, pretending I haven’t noticed anything. “I hope not too much. I got yogurt to mild it down, just in case.”
A small sigh escapes him, the steel-corded muscles under my fingers relaxing a fraction. “A spicy risotto?” he rumbles.
“Yeah. Southern recipe. Courtesy of my Grand-grandmother Louisiana.”
“Louisiana?” he chokes out, managing to sound both horrified and amused. He puts the bottle back down, though, and that little detail makes me bolder.
“Yes, but the one who taught me about using yogurt to mild it down is Aunt Nebraska.”
He chuckles, a deep, dark sound that sends butterflies swarming in my stomach.
I tug on his hand, intent on pulling him into the kitchen where I can get some food into him, but he doesn’t move. His dark gaze glides over my skin, heating it.
“Come on, Zane. You need to—”
Turning, he pushes me until my back slams into the wall, and the air leaves my lungs. “Need to what?” He grabs my wrists and brings them together over my head, holding them there with one hand. His eyes are black with want. “Lemme show you what I need.”
A thrill of fear goes through me. His grip is like titanium around my wrists, and a sting of pain goes through my bones. Gone is the softness in his eyes. What remains is heat and darkness, and I’m not sure what kind of darkness that is. Not sure he’s one hundred percent here with me.
He gives me no time to ponder this or ask anything. He bends his head to my neck, grazing his teeth over my skin, lightly tugging on my earrings with his teeth, licking the spot behind my ear— while his other hand unties the thin strap on my shoulder and pushes down the fabric, baring my breast. My nipple instantly hardens, and he flicks his thumb back and forth, teasing me, sending liquid heat straight to my core.
I want to kiss him, touch him, smooth my palm over the hard planes of his body, close my fingers around his arousal, watch his face as he comes undone.
But he holds himself just far enough that even though my back arches off the wall, we don’t touch. He doesn’t kiss me, doesn’t allow me any freedom of movement. As if he’s gone backward in time, undoing all the trust we’ve shared.
“Zane…” Frustrated, I twist my hands, trying to break free.
His hold tightens, grinding my bones together, making me yelp. God, he’s strong. “My way.”
Then he’s grabbing my hips and spinning me around, so that I’m facing the wall, and I turn my head not to crash my nose into the plaster.