With All My Heart - Emilia Finn

BEGIN AGAIN

Then

“Hey, Bert.” He leans in obnoxiously close until his engine grease and cheap coffee musk intoxicate me. With chocolate eyes and dark stubble that looks too old on his nineteen-year-old face, he rubs a square jaw along mine the way a spoiled house cat would rub his face on his owner. With muscles that are too grown when you compare them to all the other guys his age, thick hands that promise they know what they’re doing, and fingers that make a girl who’s definitely not crushing on this arrogant jerk tingle, I work to hold in my sigh.

He could take me back to his cave now, I wouldn’t even mind.

I’m such a whore.

“You need to get off me, Kincaid.”

“Nah.” His deep voice is lazy. A drawl that promises of a sticky time between warm sheets and tangled legs. “Don’t wanna.” He flashes a savage grin. “I like being on you, Bert. But now we’ve gotta try it without clothes. It’s more fun that way.”

He pins me most days after school. He gives me no choice but to endure his unwanted – but absolutely wanted – advances. We both know this can’t happen. We both know I’m unavailable to him and his jaw rubbing, finger tingling, leg humping shenanigans, and yet, his hand slides over my cotton shirt to an exposed navel. When his calloused fingers touch on bare skin, his pearly white teeth glint in the afternoon sun.

It’s like he’s the big bad wolf.

I’m his slutty Red.

I shouldn’t want him. I should knee him in the balls and call my boyfriend to come beat his ass. I should be a little more offended that he thinks he can pin me between hard chest and hard car.

But that’s not going to happen, because my boyfriend’s my boyfriend only because my daddy said he had to be. But this arrogant man, this six and a half feet of too much muscle and a wicked smirk, this is the man I think about when Shane’s smooth fingers stroke my belly. When Shane’s hazel eyes look into mine. When Shane tries to talk me into bed.

I can’t give it up to my boyfriend when I’m thinking about someone else.

That would definitely make me a slut.

I’m just half a slut. A pretend slut. A slut who thinks of one man while she’s hanging out with another.

Bryan Kincaid is my sugar, but I’m a girl on a super strict diet.

Shane is lettuce.

Bryan Kincaid is a bakery full of cinnamon rolls with icing drizzled on top, and even if I wanted to go to that bakery, roll around in the sugar, lick the cinnamon dust from the windows, taste the icing…

No! That would be bad for me.

Super bad. Super, super bad.

Imagining a possible ‘eat all the things and get super fat’ future, also known as ‘give into Bryan Kincaid and possibly have my world altered in a super scary way,’ I step out from between him and his black Mustang and watch his face fall when his hand slides from my skin.

“Not today, Kincaid. You won’t convince me to get fat today.”

“Fat?” His chocolate eyes dance playfully, but switching moods in the single beat of my heart, he snaps fast hands out and snags my narrow hips. Yanking me against his hard body, a body hardened by martial arts training and too many hours spent screwing around with his best friend at Piper’s Lane, the breath bursts from my lungs as our bodies collide. “Not fat, Bert. Perfect.” His stubbled jaw goes to work on my neck.

This is wrong. So wrong I should give myself an uppercut. But like the universe likes to play tricks on me, it feels right.

“Your body’s exactly right.” He strokes a rough hand over my left hip. “Can’t wait to take you for a ride.” I should be offended. “Just let me know when you realize fuckface isn’t man enough for you.”

“Chantelle?”

Like Bryan Kincaid is suddenly made of electrical wire, I jump so fast the top of my head slams against his jaw until his teeth snap shut. Bryan lets out a grunt of pain, but when I spin and find Shane – my boyfriend – watching us curiously, Bryan’s pain is forgotten as his hands pull me back against his chest and his hardened length rests again my backside.

Oh my gawd! His dick is hard. For me.

And Shane just tilts his head like a curious puppy.

“You have my number, Bert.” Bryan’s stubble tickles my ear. “I know you dial it