I do as he asks and lock the door, quickly starting the engine. It’s not a bad area since we’re outside of the city, but teens sometimes do stupid things and it’s best not to wait around for them to act on their stupidity.
Finn, being street, doesn’t rush to the other side, even after I hurry to unlock the passenger door. He pushes off the car and walks in slow careful strides toward one of the older teens when he leaves the group and treads in our direction. Another young man follows behind him, but the way the remaining few exchange glances, they aren’t far behind.
“You have a problem with me?” Finn asks, meeting the leader square in the face.
The command in his voice freezes them in place, but Finn doesn’t wait for them to change their minds and continues advancing. The teens know they’re in trouble, and begin to back away fast.
It’s only then Finn stops. He keeps his eye on the group, returning to my car and slipping inside only after they disappear around the corner.
When you’re a city kid, you learn real fast who’s just talking to talk and who has the goods to back it up. Thank you baby Jesus in the manger playing with his toes, those kids knew enough to back away.
I shift into gear and drive around the building. “Where are you parked?” I ask, trying to keep my motions steady.
“Next building, rear lot. There wasn’t an open spot on this side when I arrived.” His body is relaxed, but I know he remains on edge and it’s not solely because of those dumb kids.
“You were saying you don’t feel numb around me,” I remind him, knowing I can’t let something so serious go and that we’re almost out of time. “Is that a good thing?”
“Very good,” he says, placing his hand on my thigh.
The movement is light, innocent, avoiding any intimate parts, yet so sexually charged, it hitches my breath. However, I’m Latina by heritage and Philly by nature. So despite his panty-dropping performance back there, and the way his light strokes make my girl parts zing, I lift his hand and fling it away.
“You don’t get to touch me this way,” I tell him. “Not after the way you treated me.”
“All right,” he says.
“All right?” I ask, my brakes squeaking to a stop in front of his truck. “Is that all you have to say?”
And there’s that dimple. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” The corner of his mouth tilts. “And maybe kiss you, too.”
I set my car in park and sigh. “Finn, what are you trying to do to me?”
“I’m just trying to tell you I like you, Sol.”
“Then why did you push me away when I―” I can’t even bring myself to say what I did. “I don’t like games,” I tell him, wanting to sound stronger than I feel.
“So you don’t want to hear it’s me, not you?” he offers.
If he means to make me smile and ease the tension, he failed. “Only if it really is you,” I say, the sadness in my voice so evident, I know I can’t mask it.
“It is, baby,” he says, leaning in. He lifts his hand to caress my face, but then pulls away as if remembering he’s not supposed to touch me. He slumps back in his seat, or at least he tries to, but the muscles along his shoulders remain rigid. “I liked what you were doing, it felt really damn good.”
I don’t typically talk about sex and foreplay with the men I’ve had sex and foreplay with. It’s something that simply happens, and then becomes this unspoken fact after all is said and done. But as young as we are, we are adults, so it’s time to step up and behave like one.
When I speak, I mean to keep my voice firm, but my insecurities from that night spill into it, reducing it to a whisper. “That’s not what it seemed like. You kept jumping, like I was hurting you. But when I tried to be less aggressive it didn’t seem to help.”
Finn threads his hand through his hair, as if in angry or frustrated or maybe both, but again he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t he realize what it’s taking me to discuss such a personal moment so openly and honestly?
“I need to go home,” I start to say, but he cuts me off.
“I liked what you were doing,” he repeats. “But I couldn’t enjoy it. Not with you.”
“What do you mean―” My words cut off and so does my breathing. Not with me, his voice repeats in my head. “You’re . . . gay?”
Of course he’s gay. Of course. All the effin’ good ones are always gay.
Finn turns his head slowly my way. “Is that what you think?” he asks, surprising me by grinning. “After how I played with you and made you come, you really think I’m gay?”
My face warms, the shimmer in his stare mimicking the one when his fingers disappeared inside me. “You’re not?” I ask, or should I say, more like beg him not to be. Because damn it all, as pissed as I am, I still want him.
“No, I’m not gay,” he murmurs, his blue irises smoking enough to fog my windows. “If I was, I wouldn’t want to go down on you as bad as I do.”