Will’s voice echoes in my head. You can’t make your own decisions right now. He still sees me as Kendrick’s little sister. Poor, defenseless Kass. He needs to stop.
I’ll make him stop.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He’s standing in the doorway, a glass of water in hand.
“Oh, you know, just making my own decisions.”
He sighs. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“No.”
“No?” he repeats as if he misheard me.
“You heard me. I’m making the decision to stay here.” I begin shuffling through Kendrick’s stuff: the cheap trophy he won at soccer when he was a kid, the baseball he used to throw around with my dad, the math book collecting dust on his desk.
“Kass, let’s go,” Will presses.
“See? I can make my own decisions. I can choose to do this.” I pick up the trophy, chucking it to the ground. Will winces. “And this.” I give the dirty clothes on the ground a kick. “I’m free as free as a bird, Willy. The only person who can’t see that is you.”
“I said let’s go,” he scolds, venturing inside the room and seeking to catch my arm, which I throw o
ut of reach.
“I can do this.” I continue making a mess of Kendrick’s stuff. Not that my brother will notice. “And this.”
Irritated, Will slams the glass down on the nightstand and shuts the door. Probably to snap my head off without waking Winter. This time, he successfully snatches my wrist into his hand. Our bodies collide. I don’t say a word, defiance devouring me as my fingers trail down his chest tentatively.
He holds his breath.
He just said it.
He said he feels it, too. That he’s attracted to me, and I sure as hell am going to use that to my advantage.
“But, you see, the best part about making my own decisions is… that I can do this.”
I don’t wait for my common sense to kick in. For wise Kass to take the reins. I push to my tiptoes, grab his collar, and crash my mouth to his. His lips are warm, soft—welcoming. At first, I consider the absence of a rejection a good sign.
Then I realize something.
He’s not kissing me back.
I just forced myself on him. What in the fuck is wrong with me? Ashamed, I back away, babbling a squeaky “I’m so sorry.” His blue eyes are dark, unreadable. He doesn’t accept nor acknowledge my apology, staring at me in shock. I search his features for a clue as to what might be going on in that messy head of his.
Nothing.
He gives me nothing.
His reaction seems to take forever when in reality, it’s pretty quick. He shakes his head, jerks me back to him, and kisses me again.
Harder.
Deeper.
He did what?
His mouth comes down on mine roughly, blaming me for snipping his already thin resolve. This is all your fault, his lips accuse. I tried to do the right thing. Now it’s too late. Our kiss is just as heated, if not more, than the one we shared at the tree house. We barely pull away for air, reluctant to part for a split second. Is he scared, too? Scared that we’ll wake up and realize how wrong this is?