Page 22 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

I feel my cheeks burn red, the space between us suddenly too small, with nowhere left to shrink.

I want to disappear. Not because of what he said, but because of how my body and mind react to his words.

My pulse is suddenly beating too fast, a nervous staccato just beneath my skin, like there’s a butterfly stuck there, trying to flutter its way out to freedom.

He looks at me with a knowing smile. "Why are you spending time with me?"

"Well, for starters, you’re way more fun than Jett," I blurt out before biting into my sandwich.

"I better fucking be." He lets out a low chuckle.

"You are."

My confession hangs between us.

Then out of the blue, he asks, "How long are you going to pretend?"

"Pretend what?"

"That he’s your boyfriend." Pause. "You know he’s a manipulative, narcissistic dick."

I shrug. "Not for long. Just till we get back to LA." I hold his gaze. "You’re buying, right?"

He nods. "I invited you. Of course."

We finish our food in relative silence while exchanging random jokes and staring out the window at the rain pelting the trees and the cars in the parking lot.

It seems that even the sky is crying because my relationship with Jett is about to come to an end.

I’m stressed that I won’t have anywhere to go once I get back to LA, but I don’t regret my decision.

Don’t regret that I’m leaving him behind.

It’s time.

After we finish our breakfast and Cruz pays the bill like he promised, we dash for the car. The rain hasn’t slowed, and the sky is the color of the eyeliner I’d use for a smokey effect, and somehow it feels comfortable, even without the sun.

"I’m so full," I confess when we’re in the car wiping the water from our faces and arms.

"It was a good breakfast," Cruz supplies, starting the car.

"You’re sure going to the lake is okay?"

"You said it yourself earlier. A bit of rain shouldn’t stop us."

"Yeah. I did say that."

I feel a little breathless, and I’m not sure if it’s from running across the parking lot or because of his proximity.

He peels out of the lot while fumbling with a piece of paper he’s retrieved from the pocket of his leather jacket.

"What’s that?" I ask.

"I drew up some directions," he explains.

"Oh. I can help."

He hands me the paper, and I look at it for a moment, trying to decipher his chicken scratch. "You’re in the wrong field," I tell him.

"Why do you say that?"

"You have a doctor’s handwriting. Hard to read. It’s worse than Russian cursive."

"Really?" He laughs. "How do you know?"

"It’s LA. Of course I have Russian friends, duh."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I do."

We again fall into silence for the next minute or two, and it doesn’t feel awkward anymore.

It feels more as if we’ve known each other all our lives.

We can talk about anything—Russian cursive, the Milli Vanilli fiasco, what it’s like to grow up poor.

I don’t think Jett’s ever talked to me about random stuff.

Mostly, I just hear how great our future will be once he’s filthy rich and worldwide famous.

"I think we need to get off the highway soon," Cruz says. "Can you check what I noted there?" He gestures at the paper I’m still trying to decode.

"Looks like we’re taking the next exit." I don’t know how to pronounce it, so I just butcher the name of the street. " Münchner , I guess."

Cruz follows my instructions and takes the next right. The car flies down the ramp and then we’re on a street, driving past an assemblage of restaurants, hotels, and bars.

The lake isn’t far from here, and moments later, it shimmers on my right, all glossy and pearl-gray, with the raindrops turning the surface into something alive, something beautiful.

We follow the road for a little longer until we start leaving busy civilization behind.

Now, it’s mostly parks and the occasional beach with small hotels nestled at the edge of the water.

It’s pretty—lush green and cozy feeling.

Nothing like the dry, windy winters of my childhood home back in SoCal’s desert.

Somehow, I’m glad I’m experiencing all this with him and not someone else.

"You want to stop somewhere for a bit?" Cruz asks.

"Sure."

"Cool. Let's see if we can find a good spot.

" He drives some more until we hit another park filled with trees and underbrush. We turn onto a narrow road and keep going until we end up in a small parking lot surrounded by spruce and pine. It’s remote and quiet, but we still have a nice view of the lake from the car.

"How about here?" Cruz looks at me, putting the gear into Neutral.

"It’s great."

We sit in relative silence for the next few minutes with music from an English rock station playing in the background.

Water clings to the windows like little crystals, casting dim, tiny shadows as the rain continues to fall. The engine purrs softly, a pleasant hum that matches the pulse in my neck.

"Why did you kiss—" Cruz starts.

"I’m sorry about last night," I talk over him.

"What?"

"I’m sorry I kissed you," I whisper. "I was drunk."

"Are you really sorry?"

"How do you mean?"

He turns his entire upper body toward me, his eyes dark and smoldering. "Are you really sorry?"

"Umm…"

He drives his point home then. "Because I’m not."

I just sit there, frozen and speechless, unsure of what to do next. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not sorry at all. Deep down, I liked it. I remember that he felt nice, probably the nicest anything’s felt this entire weekend.

"You can kiss me anytime, Wendy." The way my name rolls off his tongue is so seductive. It’s not a sexy name, but when it comes from his mouth, it sounds like it is.

"I don’t know if this is appropriate," I whisper. It’s in total contradiction to what I’m thinking.

Bad Wendy.

But he’s just too darn delicious not to try. Besides, nothing is holding me back anymore. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to repeat my mother’s mistakes by hanging on to a shitty man like Jett who doesn’t value a woman. I’d rather make my own mistakes. And by mistakes, I mean Cruz Velez.

The silence has stretched thin and long, I realize, when he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my eyes to behind my ear. He leaves his hand there, his warm palm resting on my cheek.

I watch his chest rise and fall under his shirt. I know what I want. I want him. Even if it’s just this once. And when I look into his penetrating eyes, I see that he’s communicating exactly what I feel. Desire.

It’s like he’s offering himself up to me.

I lean toward him and feel the space between us almost crackle with sparks.

I let this moment linger, this moment just before the press of lips against lips. Take the baseball cap he’s wearing and pull it off. Visors always get in the way of kissing, so I’m preparing in advance.

I want to remember it later how it feels to finally get something this precious.

"I won’t accept any more excuses," he breathes out. His voice is a low, shiver-inducing rasp.

"I wasn’t going to give any. I was just going to kiss you while I’m sober. It’s not fair that I was drunk and you weren’t when it happened."

The corner of his mouth curls into a grin. "I’m glad we settled that."

"Me too," I supply cheekily.

He doesn’t wait. He presses his mouth to mine.

Gentle at first, like a test. Like the first taste of something so rich and decadent, you don’t want to finish it, because it’ll hurt when it ends.

Still, you know it will. Then that first taste turns into more.

Something wild, even a little aggressive.

We kiss for a while, taking our time, savoring each second. His lips are soft and full, and the stubble on his jaw is rough against my skin. His hand touches my hair first, then slides down and rests on my nape, and I can feel the calluses from the strings.

He tastes like coffee, a hint of breakfast, and something else I can’t quite pinpoint—something uniquely him.

I wrap my arms around his neck, my heart hammering in my chest as I shift in my seat to adjust my position.

It’s been a long time since I felt this alive with a man, and I’m terrified at the fact that Jett’s never made me feel the things I’m feeling with someone I met two days ago. How is this even possible?

Cruz moves closer, at least, as close as the car seating will allow. Our bodies are pressed against each other and I can feel every inch of his hard, tense muscles.

We kiss until it’s difficult to breathe, so we break away for air, both panting heavily as we stare at each other.

"This is a bad idea," I manage to get out, and my gaze is suddenly darting everywhere but at his face.

"I don’t think it is."

"Oh yes it is. I’ve started something with you, and I don’t know if I can stop."

"You don’t have to." His hands cup my cheeks, his left thumb tracing the curve of my jaw.

The air between us sizzles with unspent energy, the rain pelting on the roof above us the only witness.

I tilt my head.

Kiss him again.

Tongue seeks tongue.

Teeth graze flesh.

"But let me just—" he starts, then draws back just an inch to be able to look me in the eye. "Let me make it clear… This isn’t why I asked you out."

He’s all flustered, and I find it endearing.

"I didn’t say you did."

"I just wanted to spend some time with you. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes."

"I don’t know what’s happening here. Am I giving you the wrong signals?"

He shakes his head. "No. They’re all the right signals… I think."

"Okay then." I rake my hand through his hair. It’s like black silk between my fingers, and I want to get lost in it. In him.

He takes it from there, claiming my mouth again, then trails his tongue down my collarbone.

Oh god, I’m on fire. My toes curl inside my boots. Clothes suddenly feel so irrelevant.

"You want this?" he whispers into my shoulder, gently pulling my tee down to access my skin.

"Want what?"

"Well, the man in front of you, of course."

"Maybe."

He pauses and glances at me, all dark lashes and swollen lips. "Maybe?" One eyebrow rises.