I’m so tired of being out of the loop.
“Tell me,” I demand.
“Today isn’t your birthday.” He blows out a breath. “And you’re not eighteen.”
My mouth hangs open as I blink at him. “W-what?”
He scratches his jaw, and he looks like he feels sorry for me when he replies, “Rosalie, you turned nineteen two months ago. On September 25th.”
Suddenly dizzy, I sway on my feet. “That can’t be true.”
Preston’s hand goes to my shoulder to steady me. “It is. I swear it. I’ll tell you more once we get to a safe location.” He gives me an apologetic squeeze. “You just have the right to know how old you are.”
“Why would she do that? Why would she lie to me about my age?” The realization makes me sick. “Oh my God. She wanted to keep me younger.”
One of the first memories I have is of my third birthday party. It was just my mom and me at the house, but she’d rented a traveling petting zoo for the day. I got to ride ponies, feed goats, and hold rabbits.
I’ve always wondered why I’m able to recall a day so clearly when I was just a toddler. But now I know I wasn’t three at the time. I was four—more than a year older than I thought I was.
And I started puberty early. Once I began reading teenage magazines, there were a lot of articles on menstruation, and I realized getting my period at ten years old wasn’t so common. I used to mentally curse my body for robbing me of an extra one or two period-free years. But if Preston’s right, then I was right on schedule.
This time, when I use the crowbar, I mean business. Grunting, I swing it with as much force as I can muster. Over and over again, I hit the laptop, relishing in every crunch and crack.
By the time I land the last blow, I’m out of breath and sweating. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Preston’s in front of me, wiping my cheeks with his thumbs.
His brown eyes are so warm and concerned as he gently cradles my face in his hands.
Feeling defeated and deflated, I let the heavy metal drop from my hand.
“Come here.” Wrapping his arms around me, Preston pulls my face to his chest. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should’ve eased you into that a little better.”
“I don’t know how you ease anyone into finding out something like that.”
“Yeah. I’m trying to be careful about how much I tell you. I don’t want it to be too much for you.”
“There’s more?” The question comes out muffled against his shirt.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Preston’s right to hold back. He seems to know my limits more than I do, and honestly, I’m not sure how much more I can handle. I’ve been awake for too long. My muscles are tired and shaky. I’m hungry and cold.
I just want a break from it all.
Tilting my face up, I zero in on Preston’s lips. “Kiss me.”
His fingers spasm against the back of my neck, pressing me closer. “You’re vulnerable right now. You’re dealing with some shit—”
“Exactly. So make it better for me.”
The confident mask I’m wearing wants to fall, but I don’t let it. I realize I’m putting myself out there and risking rejection, but I have reasons for wanting a kiss. My mother made me feel as if no one would ever want me. I need to prove her wrong. Plus…
“It’s something I have to cross off my bucket list anyway,” I add, trying to make it sound like it’s not a big deal.
Preston skeptically twists his mouth in the most adorable way. “Are you sure you want it to be me? An old dude?”
“You’re not that old.” I playfully push at his chest, and I’m shocked when I feel how fast his heart’s beating.
It’s like a marching band under my fingers.
Could he want me, too? Has he thought about me as more than the pathetic girl who needs rescuing?
And I think about his question. Would I be asking to be kissed if he were someone else?
I’ve spent years dreaming of intimacy, but it was always a faceless person.
My fantasies became clearer when Preston showed up on our property. Suddenly, the person had dark scruff on a defined jaw. Gray hair mixed in with black.
So, yeah, I’m sure, and I’m glad Preston and Jessa are one in the same. Really, I’m getting two for one here.
Whatever this guy’s real name is, it doesn’t matter. A name doesn’t define a person.
“I don’t want anyone else,” I tell him seriously, silently begging him to come closer.
His face lowers, and his tone is teasing when he says, “You don’t know anyone else.”
“It wouldn’t matter.” Shaking my head, I grasp at the strings on his hoodie. “Right now, I just want you.”
Without warning or finesse, his mouth slams into mine. And I do mean slams. Our lips don’t just collide—they crash.
My eyes go wide. In movies, people always close their eyes when they kiss, but I’m so taken aback by the passion exploding from this man that I don’t even have enough sense to reciprocate.
“Kiss me back, Rosie,” Preston murmurs against my mouth, sliding his fingers into my hair and running his thumbs across my cheeks.
Unsure of what I’m doing, I begin to respond, following his rhythm and mimicking what he does when he roughly massages my lips with his. The hard press of his mouth doesn’t ease up when he his tongue demands entry, and I have no choice but to open for him.
And ohhh. When his tongue swipes against mine, I turn to mush as a burst of heat comes from my heart. My cheeks get warm. My icy fingers regain some feeling.
Now I close my eyes.
The world goes dark as I let Preston lead with bruising nips and sucks, and I just feel him.
Every sensation is new. From the scrape of his facial hair against my skin to the way his teeth occasionally dig into my bottom lip before he draws it into his mouth.
My pulse is going haywire. My knees are weak. I can’t get enough air.
I feel sticky inside my panties, and there’s an insistent throb between my legs.
The next time Preston’s tongue sweeps into my mouth, I suck on it.
He groans low, like a cornered animal.
Without disconnecting the kiss, his hands go to my waist and he walks me backward. I’m stopped when my back meets a tree, and he uses the fact that I’m trapped to go even deeper. To push his body against mine.
Something hard pokes me in the stomach, and I gasp. When the sharp sound slips out, it slices through the moment, bringing us both back to reality.
We don’t have time for this, and we both know it.
Panting, Preston buries his face by my neck. His hot breath is nice against my cold skin, and I want his kisses there, too.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” I lift my fingers to my lips, touching them lightly. They feel hot and swollen.
Preston pulls back and studies my face. His gaze darts around as if he’s searching for an injury.
“Did I hurt you?” He smooths some of my flyaway strands from my forehead, tucking them behind my ears.
“No,” I reply honestly. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
Preston opens his mouth like he wants to say something. But he shuts it again and steps back. “We should get going.”