His lips were soft and warm and firm and he tasted like apple—crisp and tart. But his kiss was sweet and edged with a need I couldn’t refuse.
Rising onto my toes, I linked my hands behind his neck, pressed against him and kissed him back. He made a noise deep in his throat and held me tighter, one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck, loosening my ponytail, the other dipping under the hem of my shirt, his fingers skimming over my skin.
Heat wound its way through my system and I stroked his shoulders and down his arms. He was broad and solid, the light scrape of the sparse stubble on his cheeks and chin a wicked contrast to the softness of his mouth. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking mine, and my mind blanked to everything but Sam. The feel of his mouth. The strength of him under my hands. His touch on my back, slow and sure and hypnotic as he trailed his fingers up my spine to my bra strap and then back down to the waistband of my shorts.
But it wasn’t enough. Now that this moment was finally happening, I was greedy for more, my body working purely on sensation and instinct. I wiggled against him, trying to get closer. Wanted to tug him to the ground and pull him on top of me.
Slipping my hands under his shirt, I pressed my palms against his stomach, against that band of skin I’d been so tempted by only minutes ago, finding it as soft and warm as I’d imagined. His muscles quivered and I curled my fingers slightly, scraping my nails against him. Drew them lower…
Lower…
His belly hollowed as he captured my wrists and tugged my seeking hands away. Lifted his head. We stared at each other, both breathing hard. In his grip, my hands shook and I cursed that telltale sign of weakness. The proof of how far gone I was over him.
How far gone I’d always been.
Sam smiled at me, that wonderful, crooked smile of his. “Guess that answers my question.”
Do you ever wonder?
All. The. Time.
Except, now I didn’t have to wonder anymore. I knew.
And knowing, having a taste of what I’d been missing, of what I could never have again, was so much worse.
I stepped back. “Take me home.”
Instantly, his smile was replaced with concern. “What’s the matter?”
Sidestepping him, I headed around the truck. “I don’t feel well. I want to go home.”
He sighed the drawn-out and patient sigh of the long-suffering. “Hadley--”
“I want to go home,” I repeated, shrill and desperate and on the brink of tears. I sniffed and yanked open the passenger-side door, then reached in for my phone in the console. “If you don’t want to take me, I’ll call Devyn. Or Zoe.”
He held up his hands, pacifying the crazy, overly emotional girl, his tone meant to soothe. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
I nodded and got into the truck. Fought those stupid tears as I waited for him to shut the tailgate and climb in beside me. We drove in silence, him shooting me glances, me staring out the passenger-side window.
He pulled into my driveway and I unbuckled and grabbed my phone. Opened the door and got out but his voice stopped me.
“Hadley.”
I shut my eyes. It wasn’t fair that out of all the boys in the entire world, Sam could reduce me to a puddle just by saying my name.
I waited, expecting him to get out and walk me to my door, insisting we talk about what just happened. But he was full of surprises today, this boy who, fifteen minutes ago, I would have sworn I knew better than anyone. Whose every move I thought I could predict.
Guess not.
“I’ll tell Mr. G. you went home sick,” he said. “Feel better.”
It was a momentary reprieve, one I couldn’t refuse.
So I shut the door and turned.
And for the first time, I ran from Sam Constable.
18
Letting you go wasn’t easy. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Freeing myself from the sheet, I carefully roll onto my stomach so I don’t wake Taylor and pull my pillow over my head. But it doesn’t muffle the sound of Sam’s voice echoing in my thoughts. Nope, it’s as clear this morning as it was last night when he spoke those words. As clear as it was for hours after that, the memory of it spinning around in my mind while I tossed and turned in bed.
Figures the only time I have perfect recall is when it comes to Sam Constable and the things he’s said and done.
I stretch out my right arm and leg to the side, let my hand and foot dangle off the edge of my bed. Eyes squeezed shut, I try to even my breathing, calm my mind and think of the most boring, mind-numbing things I can—algebra class and the Weather Channel and baseball.
It’s no use. Sleep isn’t returning anytime soon.
Sam is ruining my life. Not only did thoughts of him keep me up half the night, but now I’m wide awake before seven a.m. on a Saturday because I’d been dreaming of him.
Stupid, vivid dreams of him kissing me again the way he did that day last summer. Of me kissing him back.
I can’t even escape the boy when I’m asleep. He’s always there, hiding in my subconscious, ready to jump out and show me all the things I can’t have.
The things I could have had if I hadn’t been so scared last summer.
If I hadn’t done what I did at Christmas.
With an inner groan, I pull the pillow down, curving the ends over my ears, and push my face to the mattress until my lungs burn.
I lift my head with a soft gasp, then take a deep inhale of the stale, hot air. It’s like a sauna in my room, the morning sun heating it up despite my fan whirring like mad. And I have my own little human furnace next to me, warmth pouring off her.
At least Taylor’s still conked out, her breathing deep and even, her hair sweaty at the temples, her pudgy hands curled together under her round cheek.
I set the pillow aside and slowly roll onto my back. Push the hair out of my eyes. I might as well get up. I want to shower by myself, which will only be accomplished if I do so before Taylor wakes up since Devyn left an hour ago for her early shift at the nursing home and Zoe didn’t get in until after three.
So, yeah. As much as I’d like to put off facing the current situation that is my life for just a little while longer, I can’t.
I stare up at my ceiling, eyes narrowed as if I can see through it to the sky and whoever’s running things up there. “Let’s see what fresh hell you have in store for me,” I say under my breath, then I get out of bed.
A new day awaits.
Hooray.
I grab some clothes then step out into the hall, leaving my door open an inch behind me. I tiptoe past Zoe’s room toward the bathroom, each creak and groan of the floor beneath my feet making me wince. Nobody wants Zoe awake before she’s had at least seven hours of sleep.
She doesn’t have my bright and sunny disposition.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered, wearing shorts and a bra, wet hair combed away from my face and dripping down my back. Steam coats the mirror above the sink and I’m wiping it off with my damp towel when the bathroom door opens.
I don’t even glance over.
You know how you’re not supposed to make eye contact with an unfriendly dog or they’ll take it as a sign of aggression on your part?
The same theory holds true with a sleep-deprived Zoe.
“I barely made a sound,” I say, because when it comes to dealing with this particular sister of mine, the best defense is a good offense, and the last thing I need is her yelling at me about waking her up. “So don’t start.”