“You’re not a good liar, Nok. Why did you bring me out here?”
I follow the line of his soft, full lips with my eyes. He notices and raises a brow. It’s so obvious when somebody is staring at your lips.
“I didn’t go after you on Friday night. Regardless of what you did, you were my guest in a location you don’t know.”
I laugh lightly. “Since when do you care?”
“I don’t, but my father and Nash do. I’ve disappointed them enough over the years.”
Now that is something I can definitely relate to.
“They told me to make amends.”
I laugh louder this time. “Of course. And that’s why you haven’t apologized, because you’re not sorry.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I feel bad for hurting you, but I’m not sorry for getting us the hell out of there.” His eyes cloud over with sorrow and confliction, and then pain. I see it all roll through him and I want to prompt but I don’t want him to close down.
But then he admits it himself and my lips part.
His tone is soft and quiet when he says, “I just… I couldn’t be there anymore.”
“Okay,” I whisper, placing my hand on his because I understand him in this moment and understand that there’s more to this that he’s not saying. “You know, every time I try to find a reason to hate you, you just… pull me deeper.”
“Why would you want a reason to hate me?”
I wet my lips and look up at the sky. The sun is shining today, a rare occurrence for this area at this time of year. “I have to hate you. I have to hate someone.”
We share a lapse of silence until he utters, “You really are crazy.”
“Oh… you have no idea.”
“Why do you go to mainstream when all of your res buddies go to school on the res?” I ask as he gently dips a hook into the water. He’s caught three fish already with his dilapidated-looking fishing rod that is more duct tape than wood at this point. Still, he caught three fish.
I look at them swimming in circles in the bucket. They’re steelheads, or rainbow trout, I’m not sure the exact name. They have a rainbow sheen over their scales. It’s beautiful really. It’s a shame he’s going to kill them and cook them later.
“Because I don’t know any good white people.”
My lips part. “Seriously?”
He doesn’t elaborate, he looks uncomfortable with the conversation.
“And then the first white chick you decided to befriend was me?” I start to snigger. “Oh, you poor thing.”
“Exactly. I thought you’re new, you might be different to the sheeple at Lakeside.”
“And?”
He pushes his hair out of his face. “And you are definitely different.”
I stand and move behind him, being careful not to kick the bucket of fish over.
He tenses when I stand behind him and lift a lock of his silky, dark hair. “What are you doing?”
I thread my fingers through his hair, surprised by how soft it is. He shivers when I gently tease the snags free, and groans when I scrape my fingertips over his scalp.
“I’ve wanted to do this all day,” I admit, continuously brushing to the ends with my fingers. “I love playing with hair.”
“I love having my hair played with… as of this moment. But that stays between us.” He leans his head back and reaches up to remove my glasses. When he sees my bruised face, he frowns. “I hate that I did that. I’m not a violent person.”
I crook a skeptical brow.
He grins, still leaning back to look at me as I gently rub his scalp with my fingers and thumbs. “Okay, I’m not a violent person when it comes to women.”
“You slammed me up against a locker.”
“You liked it.” He stands, letting my hands fall from his hair, and drops the fishing rod. “You’re as fucked up as I am. So I know you definitely liked it.”
“I admit nothing.”
He stalks towards me and I walk backwards, careful not to trip and fall. “Right this second, your heart is racing, wondering if I’m finally going to kiss you, or make you come all over my hand like you did Friday night.”
My breath catches in my throat. “I didn’t think we were talking about that.”
“That’s the only good thing that came out of that night. It’s the only part that I want to focus on.”
My back hits the tree, and my mind conjures an image of the way he kissed that girl at school. I want that.
The breeze whips through his hair, sending it across his face. I push it back behind him and then hold the sides of his smooth neck, letting my thumb feel for his pulse. It throbs against me, synchronizing with my own.
“You always look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I breathe.
“Like you can’t decide if you want to see me naked, or dead.”
I blanche and then I start laughing hysterically because he has no idea how hard he just hit that nail on the head. “Something like that. Maybe both together.”
“That so?”
He lifts his shirt over his head, pulling it off in one swift move that flexes every muscle of his abdomen, making each pec tighten while accentuating every strong, deep groove.
Oh… wow.
I place my hand over his heart, and he puts his over mine. He’s so warm.
So tanned compared to me.
“I want to kiss you, but I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes, letting his fingers drift over the swollen part of my face.
He kisses my temple, the swollen side. I close my eyes. His lips are softer than I thought they’d be and his touch sends lust and tingles spiraling through my body.
I gulp. “Why did you have to be shirtless for a kiss?”
“I wanted to give you more of a reason to say yes.”
I laugh and bite my lip. “You’re so arrogant.”
“Is it endearing?”
Shaking my head, I stand on my tiptoes, the bark of the tree grazing the soft skin of my back. “Not in the slightest.”
Our lips meet… at last.
I allow myself this thing that I will never allow myself again, and deepen it, pressing my tongue to his. He’s gentle, frustratingly so. Too gentle. I need more. I need harder. I need him to consume me.
I pull back and search his eyes. “I’m not a delicate flower. Kiss me harder than you’ve ever kissed anyone in your entire life.”
His brows rise and his eyes flare with arousal that he’s now pressing against me.
He says nothing, he just grabs me and pulls me into his body. Mine slots perfectly against his, like two human puzzle pieces now a complete picture.
I moan when he assaults my mouth with his tongue, stealing my air and making it impossible to get more. But he knows when to pull back, when to let me breathe and I almost hate my need for air because it means I must separate from him which is something I don’t want to do at all.
His hands wander to my hips and then sneak around to grasp my rear. We both groan, a rough harmonious note of wanting more, but more is where I have to draw the line. Or is it? Maybe I don’t have to stop. Maybe we can keep going. Maybe I can try.
Something is watching you.