Page 11 of The Wildest One

“Ready,” she said.

I moved our bodies together. “You don’t have a car, do you?”

She laughed. “I live in the city. I take public transit everywhere I go.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

I pulled out my phone, hit the screen several times, making sure the locations were correct, and said, “A car will be here in two minutes.”

As I shoved my cell in my pocket, I took her by the hand and led her outside, the cold winter air instantly causing her to shiver. I wrapped my arm around her while she zipped up her sweatshirt.

I tugged on the sleeve, rolling my goddamn eyes as I took in the black-and-gold colors—hopefully for the last time. “I can’t fucking wait to get this off you.”

“Because it’s my team’s sweatshirt?”

“That, yes. And because I really just want you naked.”

Her eyes widened, and I pulled her against the front of me, my hands going to her face.

I stared at her for several seconds before I spoke. “You’re surprised to hear me say that, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She sounded hesitant. “Beck, I’m honestly the simplest gal there is. I go to class, I work, I study, I go to dive bars, and I party with my friends when time allows it. I have absolutely no idea why you want to spend these next three nights with me.”

The softness was growing—not hardening, but spreading across every facet of her. All that did was make my dick hardersince there was nothing hotter to me than a woman who didn’t know her beauty.

“You don’t see what I see …” I whispered.

“Not at all.”

“There isn’t a part of you that doesn’t scream how fucking gorgeous you are.” I dived my hands into her wild web of red curls. “Starting with this hair, your face?—”

“My entire childhood, I was picked on for having this hair. I begged my parents to let me dye it so I could feel like the blondes and brunettes in my grade—hair color that didn’t make them stand out like mine did. But my parents never allowed me to, they thought I should love the red. So, I endured years and years of endless bullying.”

I tightened my grip. “And now those same women would kill to have hair like yours.”

She gave me a half smile. “Who knows?”

“What about your face? You can’t tell me anyone had anything to say about it, aside from how jealous they were that they didn’t look like you.”

“In ninth grade, I got called out by a classmate because I had come to school with barbeque sauce on my cheek. She thought it was from dinner the night before and I was this grimy kid who didn’t shower in the mornings—or ever. But my mom made the very best barbeque ribs, and I had some for breakfast, and I missed a spot when I was wiping my mouth.” She let out a shuddering breath. “From that point forward, my face wasn’t of interest to anyone. I became the grimy kid who never washed.”

She was so fucking adorable.

“Can I tell you something?” I leaned in, my lips inches from hers. “Hearing that only makes me want you more.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me you’re the kind of guy who isn’t afraid of real moments?” I felt her take in some air. “Because that would make you a unicorn.”

“Why would you think real moments would bother me?”

She shrugged. “You’re Beck Weston.”

“And?”

“I don’t know … again, you’re Beck Weston.”