When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,37

to chit-chat with random guys who materialized in my room while I tried to get dressed.

It is normal. It’s just like being in the locker room with the team.

Except being alone with Holden in my bedroom didn’t feel one damn bit like it did with the team. I’d made the locker room a sterile place, devoid of any emotion or reaction on my part. Here, the air felt charged. Thick. Heavy. Electricity crackled around Holden, making the hairs on the back of my arms stand up.

I went into my closet—a small walk-in—and pulled on my underwear. I’d felt the sweep of cotton against my dick a thousand times, but suddenly it provoked the sensitive skin. I clenched my teeth and willed my body to calm the hell down.

“Catch-22 is about paradoxes,” Holden was saying. “Absurdities. A catch-22 is a problem for which the only solution is denied by a circumstance inherent in the problem itself.”

“I know what it means,” I said, quickly yanking on my black dress slacks.

“Your inherent problem is that you don’t want to attend the dance with a girl. The solution is to not go. But you can’t not go because you need to be seen with a girl. Therefore, the girl is both the problem and the solution.” Holden cocked his head, brows raised. “Am I close?”

“Is this your way of apologizing for the closet?” I threw on the white button-down, my fingers tearing up the shirt, closing buttons. “Because it doesn’t sound like an apology. It sounds like the same kind of insinuation.”

Holden’s piercing gaze softened as he watched me get dressed. “You don’t have to go.”

“I kind of do. My date is waiting.”

“Your date is my best friend’s one true love. She just doesn’t realize it yet.”

“Not my problem.” I yanked my arms through a black vest.

Holden set my copy of Catch-22 back on its stack and crossed his arms. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Of what?”

“Exchanging one costume for another,” he said with a nod at my tux.

I played stupid, ignoring how close to home his words hit. “I just threw for three hundred yards, so yeah, I’m tired.”

Holden rolled his eyes. “Spare me your stats, Tom Bundy.”

“Brady.”

“Whatever. Do you even enjoy it?”

I ignored him and wrangled a cummerbund around my waist.

“Cummerbund or vest but not both,” Holden said. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Huh? Oh, the store gave me both to try out…” I gave my head a shake and hurled the cummerbund aside. “Jesus, what am I saying? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I did.”

“Right. To rescue me.” I rolled my eyes and slipped a tie around my neck. “I don’t need rescuing. I need you to leave.”

“Come with me.”

The words sank in and spread to all parts of me. My head, heart, and cock all wanting to obey. My hands fumbled with the knot on the tie and the two lengths of silk fell apart.

“Where?”

“Somewhere you don’t have to pretend.”

I snorted and tried the tie again. “Stop saying shit like that. You don’t know me.”

Holden cocked his head in that infuriating way of his, his gaze tearing through me as he took a step closer. “Maybe not. Maybe tonight is the night we find out.”

“Find out what?” I asked, conscious that I’ve been doing a lot of that. Asking. Begging for answers.

Why? He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t…

Holden moved to stand in front of me. Up close, the devastation of his looks was almost blinding. I had to take him in pieces; my eyes tracing the line of his perfect face, his full lips, the cleft in his chin, and the small mole high up on his left cheekbone. His silver hair was gelled in a thick, full wave on top, cut short on the sides, exposing the long cords of his neck. Everything about him assaulted my senses, making me stupid.

Holden drew closer and I watched, frozen, aware of every nerve-ending in my body standing at attention, my cock twitching in my pants. His hands—elegant, but masculine and stained with ink—adjusted the knot in my tie.

“It’s a tad crooked.” His breath wafting over my lips—smoke and vodka, fire and ice. “Just like me.”

I swallowed, and Holden’s gaze dropped to my Adam’s apple, watching the movement. Then up to my lips, lingering there, while his own mouth parted, the tip of his tongue venturing out to touch his bottom lip.

Oh fuck…

Lust—pure, unfiltered want—ripped through me like a wildfire. But just as potent were the thousands of emotions swirling in my chest. Instead of feeling