His hands reach up to find mine, lock around my wrists, and twist my arms over my head, gently pinning me.
His face is so close, I can see the olive black of his pupils, round and hungry, and the way his mouth is held tight, like he’s working hard not to lose control.
"I promised we'd just talk." He swallows hard and licks his lips. "This isn't just talking."
"We can just kiss."
I want him to press his mouth back on mine. I want his hands under my clothes, I want to peel away everything he's wearing...but I know that's all sprinting when this is a marathon. It needs to be a marathon, because I feel a funny pinch of panic when I imagine that this will end up a repeat of last week, with Winch turning into a pumpkin with no contact information at midnight.
He lets go of my wrists slowly and bends his head back down until our lips find each other, and this time it's a heart-hammering, blood-pounding, body-shaking tempo.
"Evan," he moans, pulling his lips away and kissing my temple and the side of my ear.
I stroke one hand through the soft strands of his dark hair, and wedge the other between us so I can open the line of buttons that run down his shirt.
"Evan." This time his voice is a plea. Or a warning. His eyes flicker down over my hand, flattened on the hard muscles of his chest. "I want to take this slow. And you're so damn sexy. Seriously, you're beating the shit out of my willpower."
"You don't have to worry. I'm not a virgin or anything," I inform him, and his eyes shutter. He pulls back just a fraction, and I sit up on my elbow, surprised at how quickly the sexy got sucked out of the room. "What's the problem?"
"We just met. We're not having sex yet," he declares, then shakes his head. "And, you know what? Here's my other problem. What the fuck is going on with you? You need to give yourself more credit, value yourself more."
I can't keep the snort back, and he goes full-blown scold-mode. "You took a ride out to the middle of nowhere with that scumbag Jace. What were you thinking?" His mouth presses into a long, flat line and his nostrils flare. "What if he took you to some shithole where they were doing meth? Do you know how violent those assholes get?"
I sit up and yank the straps of my dress back onto my shoulders.
"Jace is harmless," I huff. I have no clue if I'm accurate, but I do know that I don't need Winch getting all parental on my ass. "I had my cell phone."
"You can't be serious." This time when he grabs my shoulders, it's definitely to full-on lecture me, and I angle my face away, determined not to pay attention to this condescending crap. "Listen to me. You need to take better care of yourself. Don't trust people so easily."
I purse my lips and examine his face, so serious and intent, it rubs away some of my moodiness.
"What about you? Do I trust you?"
"Yeah." He kisses my lips softly, and that brush feels more astoundingly erotic than the full-on makeout session we just had. "You can trust me because I care about you, and I always watch out for the people I care about."
My heart leaps into my throat, the way it feels when an elevator drops too fast from too high a floor.
"This is weird. Really weird. I went this whole entire week thinking that you didn't give a damn what happened to me, and now all this?"
He leans his forehead on mine and runs his hands up and down my back in slow, even swipes.
"This is the beginning. You make me feel crazy, Evan. You make me feel alive for the first time in a long time, and that scared the shit out of me. But I can't risk not having you in my life. I'm so glad that douchebag brought you here tonight."
I find his lips with mine, and we fall back on the bed. I know it's getting late. We both have community service in the morning. Gramma probably called to check on me. I should be headed home.
But all I can concentrate on is the feel of him, Winch, the guy I haven't been able to shake out of my head for days, kissing me and telling me how much I mean to him, how he wants to hold my hand and plunge off the edge of the highest, scariest cliff I’d ever seen. I’m so ready to take that flying leap with him, and I shouldn’t be.
I really shouldn’t be.
His hands are warm and big on the length of my legs, along the waistband of my barely-there thong and over the skin I'm so glad I shaved extra smooth. His breathing is harsh and sharp, and I love the things he murmurs while he touches me: gorgeous, beautiful, Evan, mine.
The entire night is about to implode in a way he says we're not going toward but I want, when there's a crash from the room next door.
Winch's hand stops right where it is, his fingers tangled around the lacy waistband of my thong, ready to yank it down. He squeezes the skin at my hip and, when he looks up, his eyes are soft with apology.
"I have to check on Remington."
"Of course. Go ahead."
I pull the straps of my dress up again and try not to sigh when he buttons up his shirt, covering all the gorgeous expanse of his chest, and walks with quick, decisive direction out of the room.
Then I listen.
I hear what sounds like someone crying, low, keening moans and loud, choked sobs. Those are offset by the tenor of Winch's voice. I don't know what exact words he's saying, but his voice is calm, slow, in-command.
Winch watches out
