“Nothing,” I said, catching on.
His heat surrounded me as he closed in, and I guess I could have backed up, but I didn’t, letting him get in my space, letting his scent fill my nose. There’s no denying my body ached for his; it was my heart that held back.
“You’re wearing the necklace I got for you.”
My chest rose up. “I crushed that necklace the day you broke up with me. In the parking lot of Vespucci’s, as a matter of fact. Stomped it until there was nothing left but dust. Dust in the wind, Cuba, dust in the wind.”
“You called me a liar,” he said, “but you’re one, too.” He slipped one hand around my neck and the other underneath my shirt, his warm hand skating up my belly and past my bra to the cleft where my pendant lay. He clasped it in a fist, his eyes searching mine like a man deranged, like a man confused by something he didn’t understand.
And my entire body fluttered for him, and it felt deliciously right to have his hand on me, yet wrong. But why was it wrong I asked myself. My mind clouded, forgetting all the things that separated us. He had me under his spell, the underlying implications of it scaring me.
Why did I want him more than anything, even dance?
His fingers ran up the length of the chain, gently tugging on it until it rested outside my shirt, the glass ball glinting, the little dandelion stalks visible. I glared at them. Traitors.
“You still wear it,” he breathed as if to himself, his fingers twisting it around.
What could I say?
“Don’t break it,” I said, afraid he’d destroy the fragile glass like he had my heart.
He gazed down at me. “I lay awake at night wondering if what you felt for me was real or just because I was your first. That I could have been anyone, and you would have loved them.”
What? My brow wrinkled. If he’d been stringing me along last year, his comment made no sense.
I looked up at him. “It was real. How could you doubt it?”
He got all twitchy and dropped the pendant, his face intense. “Do you still love me? Don’t lie to me, but then, fuck,” he ground his teeth, “don’t tell me the truth either. I don’t know if I can take it.”
My pulse pounded at his broken words. But they made me angry too. “Why are we doing this?”
He paced away from me, his voice escalating. “I’ve tried for a year to ignore you, and I just can’t do it anymore.” He pounded his fist against the desk in the room once…twice.
“Try harder,” I shouted. “You fucked up with me. And I won’t let you do it again. Stop with the games and lies, already.”
And then.
He rushed over to me. “I never lied to you. Not one single time,” he whispered, his eyes crazy with need and sadness and so much emotion that I wanted to...
“Dovey, please believe me.”
I shook my head and pulled away, but his big body followed, backing me up until I had nowhere to go.
“We haven’t kissed in a year,” he growled, eyeing my lips.
I licked them, and he groaned.
He moved in closer until we were nose to nose. “That mouth is mine,” he said, his eyes blazing. Cupping my cheek, he took my mouth hesitantly, almost as if he were afraid I’d run, or perhaps, he was afraid he’d run. His lips feathered over mine gently, his tongue massaging mine, reigniting flames that had never been distinguished to begin with. And heaven help me, our kiss was fire and ice rolled into one. Love and hate, light and dark, our lips made a perfect symmetry.
“I hate you,” I lied when we came up for air.
His eyes darkened. “I like how you hate me, Dovey,” he said in a raw voice, grasping my chin with firmness, dipping his head and owning me, our tongues dueling it out to see who’d come out on top. I nipped at him, and he nipped back, but in a soothing way, as if trying to placate me.
My lips recognized the perfect weight of his, my body arched toward his, remembering home. I let him dominate my lips, taking liberties as his sucked on my upper lip and then my lower one. He took my mouth like he needed it to breathe and heaven knows, I needed his. Nothing had changed. I still craved him, all his edges and sweetness.
I vibrated from that kiss. I spun out of control. I lost all sense of where I was and life became all about being with him. I ran my hands through his thick hair and held on, the pain of the past unraveling, thread by thread.
God, I’d been fooling myself. I still loved him.
A loud clanging bell permeated my consciousness, saying we were late for Lit. And then I heard Mrs. Whitman getting ready for her study hall class in the library.
What was I doing?
I pushed until he rose up, his eyes full of heat.
“The bell,” I said, shifting out of his arms, needing some space to think, but he pulled me back.
“Don’t run, Dovey. Stay here. Talk to me. Let’s figure out—”
There was nothing to say. What could he possibly say to change the fact that he was going to be a father or that I was going to be a call girl? And that is a euphemism.
“Explain Emma,” I said.
He wore a somber look on his face. “Can you trust me when I say there’s nothing between us? I can’t tell you much more because I gave Emma my word I wouldn’t talk about the baby or the circumstances until she was ready.”
“Emma, Emma, Emma. It’s funny to me that you claim to not be any good at relationships, but that is only with me. With her, you’re perfect.”