“I said I’d take you,” he says in that sex-oozing voice of his. “All the way.”
All the way. We might’ve gone all the way last night, if I hadn’t told him to stop. Butterflies dance in my abdomen, and I’m back to thinking of his mouth on my skin. Oh, god. As much as I hate him, as infuriating as he can be, I realize in an instant that nothing in my life up to now even comes close to the bliss I’d felt at that moment, when his tongue was tracing lazy circles around my breast.
I want that feeling again. Desperately. Rabidly.
But I’m the virgin. He’s not going to touch the virgin. I might as well have said I had leprosy. “Why?” I ask, suspiciously. “What’s in it for you?”
“What do you mean, what’s in it for me? You don’t think I can do something nice for someone without wanting anything in return?”
“No,” I answer. “Actually, after last night, I thought you hated me.”
He chuckles. “Maybe that’s what I wanted you to think.”
I groan. He has to know what he’s doing to me. He’s done it to hundreds of other girls. He’s probably having fun with this. Teasing the only girl who has been in his presence longer than five minutes and managed to keep her virginity. I’m like his freaky little test-tube experiment.
And if he’s using me for fun, the least I can do is use him for a ride to Boston. I’m considering it when he says, “You just caught me off guard. But it’s all good.”
“It is?” That’s not what the look on his face said last night. “You know Boston’s five hours away, right?”
“Yep. It’s all good.”
“That’s all you have to say? Forget it. I’m not letting you drive me that far.”
“Fuck that. I’m taking you. It’s final.”
I grit my teeth. “And do we have to listen to country the whole way?”
I expect him to say it’s all good again, but instead, he says, “Not if you play your cards right.”
Whatever thought that was in my head just flies right out. He’s so blatantly toying with his virgin test-tube girl, it’s not even funny. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I snap, checking the time. Shit, if I don’t get on the road soon I’ll be toast. “Forget it. Whatever. Pick me up in ten minutes?”
“As you wish.”
Great, now he’s going and quoting my favorite movie.
I fluff my hair in the mirror in the foyer and apply more lip-gloss. My father is still snoring on the couch—thank god—so I scrawl a vague note to my parents telling them I’ve gone to the city to put out a fire at the office. When Dax’s car pulls up in front of my house, ten minutes later as promised, I quietly escape outside, holding my pumps in my hands so I don’t make too much noise click-click-clicking down the driveway to his Mustang. I slide into the seat and look over at him.
Oh my goodness. Even in the morning, he’s beautiful. He’s wearing his trademark jeans and a black t-shirt, stretched tight over his chest, and heavy work boots, same as always…but why does even his sameness always take my breath away?
“Nice dress,” he drawls, eyes lingering not on my dress but lower, on my bare thighs.
“Thanks,” I say, throwing my shoes and purse on the floor and digging my toes into the plush floor mat. The dress is supposed to be professional, but since I’m long-legged it stops mid-thigh. Nestled in his bucket seat, I pull at the bottom hem but it still leaves most of my legs exposed.
As he pulls away from my house, he downshifts, and his hand drops possessively on my thigh.
He’s done that before, but this time, I let out a gasp. His fingers trail their way up the skirt of my dress, dangerously close. If he keeps this up, I won’t even be a virgin by the time we cross state lines. I point to his hand. “So,” I say breathlessly, “does this mean you’re okay with what I told you last night?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Why not? It’s a temporary condition,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, I know,” I say. “Virgins don’t stay that way for long when Dax Harding is in the room.”
He gives me shrug. “You and I were together five months, Katydid. Did I ever pressure you?”
Dax and I were together the winter into Spring. Most of that, we spent talking and flirting. He kissed me in my bedroom, and then left. When I decided that was too dangerous, I’d sneak out the front door, and meet him in the yard, under the tree, in the place farthest from my parents’ bedroom. I couldn’t get enough of him; my body kept screaming more, more. When it got warmer and the days stretched longer, we went out to the field behind the garage and spent long late afternoons after school lying on a blanket, making out. I remember my fingers trailing their way under his t-shirt, reaching for the buckle of his jeans, wanting more, wanting so much more, even then.
I swallow. “No,” I murmur.