“Dax. Wait,” I whisper in his ear.
“I’ve waited for this for four years,” he murmurs, intent, dragging his open mouth down to the button of my cutoffs so I can feel his inviting warm breath on my skin there.
Holy shit.
It takes all my willpower to summon the energy to lift myself up and nudge him away. “But I’ve never done that.”
He stops suddenly and looks at me. “Never?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” I say, blushing now. My eyes trail to the dirty linoleum floor. “You knew I was before.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to stay . . .” He rakes his fingers through his hair. I wish for once he would stop looking like he’s just discovered alien life exists. “All right.”
He suddenly stands up and grabs for his t-shirt, quickly covering up all those glorious, hard muscles. I straighten on the desk and find my camisole, then slink into it, embarrassed. The truth is, despite four years at college, I never even had a close call. Never even wanted one. It’s like, the day I left Dax, that part of me turned off, and that well of passion he could summon inside me just dried up. Sure, I’d met all kinds of guys—studious types, party-hungry frat-boys, sophisticated graduate teaching assistants—but I never even felt one tenth of what I felt in this room, right now. Was I comparing every single guy I met to Dax Harding? I’d like to say no, but . . .
Yes. Looking at him now . . . oh, God, yes. Why did I stop him?
He retrieves the keys from the pockets of his jeans, and it isn’t hard to see his raging erection poking through his jeans. “I should probably take you home, huh?”
Now, he’s looking at the ground. He’s doing everything possible not to look at me. What the hell?
“All right,” I answer. Not two minutes ago, I was seriously considering losing my virginity to this man, and now he can’t even make eye contact with me. I slide off the desk, find my camisole and slide it on, and follow him out to his Mustang.
He blasts the country music loud, so we barely talk on the ride home. To ward off the awkward silence, I play with my phone. Though it’s after midnight, that’s never stopped Fowler from sending me messages, but for once, I have none. When we pull into my driveway, I expect him to turn down the radio so we can talk, but he doesn’t. He just says, “’Night.”
And that’s all, folks.
I feel stupid. Used. Of course it’s what I thought. He just wanted to finally check off his list the one girl from high school he never got a chance to nail. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with the “emotional baggage” of being someone’s first. I don’t say a word as I push open the door to his Mustang. And I slam it extra hard, with the dim hope that maybe it’ll fall off.
That’s the only way to get to a guy who cares about nothing unless it has a motor and wheels, right?
Chapter 6
Damn. I swore I’d never let Dax Harding drag me into another sleepless night.
And yet, as the early rays of summer sunlight start to poke their way through my bedroom blinds, I realize how stupid I was.
Total regret hangover. Why did I go with him last night? I find myself wishing I still had friends from home to text with. If I had kept in touch with Juliet or Nevaeh, maybe they could’ve talked me down from the ledge. They were always so good about painting Dax like a total asshole.
Turns out, they were right.
I sigh, thinking of how I left things with them. After the incident that got Dax kicked out of school, they stopped talking to me.
I thought they’d start talking to me again once they learned Dax and I were no longer on speaking terms, but they never did. My senior year was so lonely, spent going directly to and from high school, taking the “scenic” route so I wouldn’t pass Harding’s Garage on the way. I didn’t have a social life, because no one knew what to make of me. I kept my head down, just waiting for the day I could escape to Boston.
Once again, I’ve fallen victim to those old memories I tried to sweep under the rug, only the time spent with Dax is dragging it all back into the light once more.
Coming back to the present, I’m surprised when my phone at my bedside dings with a text message.
I suck in a breath, hoping it’s Dax apologizing. Fat chance. The funny thing is, as angry as I am with him, all he’d have to do is say a few sweet words, and I’d be his.
Why am I such a sucker? Dax doesn’t apologize.
I freeze when I see the name EVAN FOWLER on the top of the text window. Only he would be up with his nose to the grindstone at five on a Sunday morning.
I open the window and read:
WHERE THE HELL IS THE MASON DANIEL FILE??????