“Do you have any food at home?”
The image of a bare refrigerator comes to mind.
“No.” I run my hand through my hair. “Sorry.”
“I could go for a hamburger. Actually, the bacon avocado cheeseburger at The Nerd would be amazing right now.” She looks at me expectantly, normally, like we hadn’t just gotten secret society tattoos and made out while doing it.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, trying to find my footing and failing miserably. “I could eat. I mean, I can always eat.”
The hum of electricity continues to crackle between us as I drive across town. I want to hold her hand. I want to reach out and touch that strip of leg again. I want to look at her and have her look at me. I have this policy, though. Whenever Vandy is in my car, my attention is on the road, hands fixed at ten-and-two.
I take a left, into the abandoned K-Mart building that’s a few miles from The Nerd. The parking lot is enormous and bare, and when I roll into a spot and put the Jeep in park, I have to sit there for a second, hands clenching tight around the steering wheel.
The cabin is quiet enough that I can hear her soft inhale right before she speaks. “What’s wrong?”
I look at her, too many answers swirling in my head—none of which I can give her. That my insides feel like they're magnetized. That my blood feels like lava right now. That my balls ache, and my chest hurts, and I’m not safe to drive, because I have this gorgeous girl in my car and all I can think about is burying literally any part of myself between her thighs, and that all of that is the easy part. Because being horny is one thing, but whatever I’m feeling right now is some crazy mess of nervous want that I have no idea what to do with.
There’s no doubt the tension rises the longer I stay silent. I’m just not sure what the tension means. Regret? Fear? Want?
I know what it means for me. I feel it every fucking day, the impulsive urge to take what isn’t mine, an urge I rarely push back against. I didn’t resist at the tattoo parlor, and I can’t resist now.
The faint shred of control doesn’t slip away so much as it plummets.
The kiss is borderline embarrassing. We’re flying at each other over the console, lips meeting hungrily, but our seatbelts are straining against us, pulling us back. It takes me three tries before I have it unlatched, but once I do, my hand is in her hair, tugging her closer. If I’d taken that kiss back at Thistle Cove, it probably would have been ice in comparison to this—the way I fuck my tongue into her mouth with greedy kisses.
She makes a sound deep in her throat, this quiet little whine that has me pushing closer so I can swallow it, keep it for myself. Mine now. I know I’m being too rough, that I’m pulling her hair, and she probably can’t even breathe with how desperate my mouth is against hers, but instead of pushing me away, she grabs back, hand fisted tightly into my sleeve.
I break away to suck at her neck, only just barely cognizant enough to not leave any marks. She tastes so sweet here, this little patch of skin under her jaw, and I can feel the thrum of her pulse beneath it, frenetic and alive. She gulps in these big inhales, and there’s a soft, unspoken approval in the way her fingers wind into my hair, holding me there.
When I plunge back in for a kiss, she meets me readily, like she’d been expecting it, hoping for it, and I can’t help myself. I want everything right now, all at once. I want to mark and have and consume, so badly that I’m shaking with it.
I push my hand up her skirt, wedging it between her thighs.
She gasps into my mouth, and the sound is so gentle—such a stark contrast to the way I’m kissing and groping her—that it shakes something loose inside of me.
I pull away, crashing back into my seat. Hands at ten-and-two. Eyes closed. Chest heaving. Deep breaths.
Fuck.
After a long moment of our harsh breathing, Vandy’s reluctant voice breaks the silence. “Reyn?”
I suck in a long inhale. “I just need a minute.”
She answers with a soft, “Okay,” and my eyes are still closed, but I can practically feel her chewing on that lip, and it’s not helping my situation much.
I say my ABCs backward in my head, and it takes more than a minute, but eventually I can let go of the steering wheel and rake a hand through my hair. “Sorry, that got a little out of hand.”
Her mouth is red when she smiles, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, I was about three seconds away from coming over that gear shift.”
A rough chuckle escapes my chest. “I won’t even say what I was three seconds from doing.” She laughs in response, and her eyes look so bright—so calm—that I almost feel dumb for asking, “Are you okay? Did I freak you out?” With my massive, throbbing libido.
Some of that radiance dims a bit. “Of course. I’m not made of spun glass, Reyn.”
I want to tell her that I know she’s never done this before, that I don’t want to be the scary front-seat groping-guy she tells her friends about at some college sharing circle in four years. I want to be that other guy, the kind of guy who takes her out and treats her right and doesn’t push his hand up her skirt in an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, even though I am apparently totally that fucking guy.
Instead, I drive.
Like most nights, The Nerd is packed. Familiar cars with Preston Prep stickers on the back windows line the parking lot. Emory’s truck is, unfortunately, right by the door. I grip the wheel, staring at the neon sign. She sits quietly for a minute, her forehead creased in thought.