Page 40 of Not So Goode

He sidled over to the crate I was sitting on, leaned against it and lifted up onto his tiptoes—his hands braced on my thighs, and he was so close I could smell him, and it made me dizzy and mushy inside, the pungent man-smell of beer and sweat and leather.

“Oh, yeah, he found her alright.”

“I think they found each other,” I said.

He eyed me, hands on my thighs still. “That so?”

“He took a pull of whiskey and spat it into her mouth, or something. And I think she liked it, judging by the way she kissed him back.”

He laughed. “You gonna stop them?”

I shook my head. “No. She’s a big girl. She can make her own choices. And she told me she’d go along with pretty much anything he wanted, if she had the chance.”

He chuckled wryly. “That’s a dangerous thing. Myles is awful fuckin’ creative, and ain’t super big on giving much of a shit about what people think.”

“You just described Lexie.”

His thumbs moved in circles on my leg, and I worried my skin would burst into flames where he was touching me, even though I had on leggings and he wasn’t touching skin. “So they’re a perfect match, it sounds like.”

“That or they’ll kill each other,” I said, my voice faint. I looked down at his hands. “You’re rubbing holes in my legs.”

He followed my gaze. “Oh. Whoops.” His thumbs stopped. Then his hands slid a little higher. The movement resumed, and his lips curled in a sly grin. “New spot. Better?”

I nodded, dumbly, and then realized what I was saying and put my hands on his, intending to stop him, but instead just ended up with my hands resting on his as he kept rubbing my thighs with his thumbs.

“Silly things,” he said, “must have a mind of their own.”

“That’s my line,” I whispered.

“Stole it.”

I looked down—his hands were well up on my thighs now, getting kind of daring. Close to parts which were beginning to sit up and take notice at the promise of attention.

Down girl, I told myself.

I felt my nipples disobeying, going firm, hard, aching.

Why was I even letting him touch me this way?

Oh, right. Because it felt like he was setting me on fire, and that was new, and I didn’t like new.

But I liked this new.

I liked being on fire, as long as he was doing the igniting. Didn’t I? Seemed that way, but it was all new to me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt.

Or what I was feeling.

Was my vagina supposed to tingle when he wasn’t even touching it? Should I feel this ridiculously damp and hot down there?

Apparently I’d had no real understanding of true desire, or need, or sexual arousal…until now. Not until Crow.

This was inconvenient.

Disconcerting.

And deeply, intensely difficult not to act.

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