“Well, I sort of figure you couldn’t fit a knife in those seven inches of fabric masquerading as swimwear.”
I snarl, “Try me,” but it just makes his head tilt.
His eyes wander back and forth between my own, really slow and methodical, scrutinizing. “Jesus, you’re beautiful. You know that?”
I lift my chin in response. “Leave me alone.”
“You really don’t like it when I touch you, do you?” He asks this less like he’s worried—like he cares—and more like I’m some interesting bug he’s just found.
I shake my head. “No.”
“But you did like it when I kissed you.” It’s not a question. They should be the same thing—touching and kissing—but they aren’t, and he knows it. I know it.
He lifts a hand to gently—carefully, without touching—pluck the dog tags hanging from my neck. They look smaller in his fist than they ever have my own and the sight of it, of him holding this huge part of me, makes my stomach clench nervously. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you again, Sugar.”
I swallow, my eyes focused on his fist, closing around the dogtags.
The words won’t come.
He gives the chain a gentle tug. “Tell me you’re not into whatever’s going on between us.”
“I’m not,” I say, but it’s weak and he’s so close, making it hard not to fall under the sway of all his smooth, hard skin and that strong jaw. Beneath the water my fingers twitch, wanting to touch his tattoos, to feel the ink beneath the pads of my fingertips. He bends, tensing his arm, forcing the warm pool water to surge against my chest. Even though I’m wet and it’s cold outside, my skin feels like it’s on fire. My nipples peak, and I start feeling it again, that desire building in the pit of my stomach.
God, I fucking hate it. I don’t want a guy like Sebastian. I don’t want to feel this for someone who’s mean and reckless. Someone I’m afraid of. Someone I could never really be close to. Am I broken? Is this another scar that a childhood under Doug’s boot has left on me?
“I don’t want this,” I repeat.
“Something tells me that’s not the truth, Sugar Voss. Something tells me you want me as much as I want you.” And then he does it. It’s such an odd relief—so much like the one I’d felt when he touched me, and I knew the pain was coming. Only this time, it isn’t pain. He bends, brushing his lips across mine, and it’s like a nuclear explosion against my nerves. Bright. Hot. Chaos.
He’s so slow and tentative at first, probably worried that I may knee him in the balls again. But I don’t. I kiss him back, melting under the warmth of his lips, yielding to the tug of the chain against my neck as he draws me near. It’s all the encouragement he needs to deepen the kiss, a shocking dichotomy of hard and soft. His teeth tug against my bottom lip and I open for him, feeling his tongue sweep inside.
It’s even better than the kiss before. I’m less shocked now, able to fully experience the wash of his breath, the texture of his tongue, the taste of him, the heat. Fuck, it’s intoxicating. I just want to sink into him, get lost in the wave of sudden sensation and touch.
The others are completely forgotten, and all I can think about—all I can feel—is this boy claiming my mouth with his own. He keeps his hands away from my skin, but there’s this wayward itch of want simmering in the pit of my stomach. I don’t recognize it instantly, I just know it’s a dangerous thing, whatever’s missing from this. The thing I suddenly want.
It hits me like a ton of bricks.
I want him to touch me.
I yank myself away from the kiss, scrambling back up the step.
His chest is heaving, forehead creasing in response. “Don’t,” he says, his hand reaching out to grab my wrist. “Don’t walk away from me again.” He presses up against me, and I can feel how much he wants me. His cock is hard and pressing against his shorts. My stomach erupts into butterflies, even as I break from his grip, heart hammering like a wild thing against my ribcage.
“I said no,” I tell him, taking a few steps back.
His jaw goes sharp and tense. “Jesus Christ, Sugar, way to be a fucking cock-tease.”
I’ve felt a lot of anger in my life, so much of it always boiling under the surface. I’ve lived anger, breathed it, swallowed it, slept within the storm of it. It was a powerless, impotent anger I could never act on. It was the kind of anger that changes a person, molds them into someone hard and inert.
But I’ve never felt as angry as I do this moment, being accused of leading on a person I’ve said nothing but no to.
My reaction is all instinct. I raise my hand and send it flying, landing a hard, stinging slap across his cheek. His head whips to the side and—oh my fucking god—it feels so good. Like my chest was filled with fire and I’m finally exhaling, taking my very first breath, singing something with the power of it.
Sebastian staggers back and gives his head a soft shake. His eyes are unfocused, and his brow is pinched, and I get this red-hot impulse to lash out again. To hurt.
Before I can, Carlton is there, screaming. “What the hell are you doing?!”
I rise quickly out of the water, heart pounding in my chest. “I said no.”
Caroline’s watching us all the way down the pool, waving her arms, eyes wide. “He has a concussion! You can’t hit him!”
I can, though.
I can hit. I can hurt. This isn’t impotent anger. Sebastian isn’t my step-father. I can strike out here, where everyone is soft and nice and so goddamn comfortable.
Can’t I?
From the looks everyone’s giving me, perhaps not.
Sebastian says, “Stop,” and digs his fingers into his eyes. And then, louder, “Stop! It’s fine. Just surprised me a bit. My fault.”
Tyson asks, “Bass, what the fuck did you do to her?”
I don’t stay to hear the answer. I run toward the changing room and I don’t look back, not wanting to know what these people think about me. He deserved it. I know he deserved it. He had to have deserved it. The only thing more terrifying than the in-between of waiting for pain and being hurt is the knowledge that I’m just as capable of delivering it.
11
Sebastian
“Damn it,” I mutter, fighting with a bolt inside the Mustang’s engine. I’ve spent most of my non-school time this week at the salvage yard and searching online for parts. So much of this fucking engine is a rusted, corroded mess, which is not to even mention the remains of a rat nest—although, thankfully no rats. Taking this thing apart has been a fucking nightmare and a half, and sometimes I wonder why I’m bothering.
It’s not like she’ll appreciate it, especially if she knew it was coming from me. The satisfaction I’d get from restoring it would last the amount of time it’d take for her to drive it out of the shop. The project itself has been a distraction, but also a gigantic pain in my ass. I’m spending most of my free time here, either sweating or freezing my balls off, absolutely no in-between, and on days like today, nothing ever goes right, it’s just failure after failure.
“Fuck!” I grit my teeth and pull at the wrench, straining my muscles. Finally, with the help of some lube and sheer strength, the bolt gives, spinning off. I grab the tiny piece of warped metal and fling it across the room at the trash can. “Stubborn motherfucker.”