A Fine Mess (Over the Top #2) - Kelly Siskind Page 0,73
glance at his face. Our palms are sweaty. My anxiety? His? Is he eyeing the door, hoping for a quick getaway? Is he wishing he never asked? But under my dread is relief. Revealing a long-kept secret is like lancing a boil—the ugly leaks out, but the pain lessens, and maybe the healing begins.
“Lily, look at me.”
I squeeze my eyes, my limbs suddenly heavy, my head a thousand pounds. I exhale and look up.
“I love you,” he says.
Love. Love, love, love. He loves me. But he can’t. “You can’t.”
“You need to stop telling me what I can and can’t feel. Sure there’s some stuff we need to deal with, but you’re still you. You’re Lily Roberts, hot as sin, designer extraordinaire. You’re my Venus. It’s pretty simple, actually. And I realize now might not be the best time, inappropriate or whatever, but being in your teenage bedroom is turning me on.”
I laugh, actually laugh. I’ve just bared my most hideous self, the sticky truth spilled between us, and he still sees the girl he ravished in Belize. And I mean ravished. I latch on to his flirting like it’s a life raft. “I don’t have a school uniform, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Can’t lie, that disappoints me. I’ll have to deal with you naked.”
We’re sitting here, flirting, joking, as though it’s just another day. As though things haven’t changed. He’s showing me things haven’t changed. I take in the sincerity in his brown eyes, the warmth of his hands holding mine. He was worried he’d repeat his family’s mistakes, but here he is, standing by me. He’s so much more than he realizes. Bigger. Brighter. He’s a planet in a world full of stars.
“You can’t love me,” I say again, too scared to believe it.
“Seriously? You’re still going on about that?”
“You can’t.”
“I do.”
“You’re sure?”
“Okay, let me think about it.” He tips his head back, then he shrugs and smirks. “Yep. Still sure.”
“I love you,” I whisper, and my chest expands to fit my heart.
He grins. “I know. But it’s awesome to hear it.” He releases my hands and grabs my neck, pulling me in for a kiss, deep and true—the most honest kiss of my life. He pushes forward until I’m on my back, our tongues tangling and groans mingling, his weight holding me down.
God, do I love this man. He peels off my clothes, kisses my body, worships me from head to toe. Then he’s inside me. I love you, each thrust says. You haven’t changed, his greedy hands confirm. We’re rough and wild, trust and truth binding us closer. My orgasm blinds me, stars collecting behind my eyes, our cries suppressed in my parents’ house. He stays inside me longer than usual, peppering kisses all over my body.
“Tomorrow,” he says once we’ve washed up and crawled into bed. “We’ll go tomorrow and figure stuff out.” He pulls my back into his chest, latching an arm around my waist.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm.
Anxiety still simmers, fear that I’ll eventually have to part with my things. Let people go. But this needs to be done. A trip to the farm normally calms me. One whiff of the lavender potpourri I have in each room relaxes my shoulders—the smell that would greet me at my grandmother’s. I’m home, I often think. Not tomorrow, though. Tomorrow, I’m guessing nausea will claw at my throat.
Eighteen
Sawyer
When I pull into the lane that leads to Lily’s farmhouse, she slaps her hand on my steering wheel. “Can we wait a second?”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice, not with the way she’s bouncing her knee, or how a weight compresses my sternum, apprehension pressing it down. Whatever’s inside that building has a hold over her. It’s bigger than her quirks and tics—her idiosyncrasies I thought I understood. I want to say the right things, help her, but I’m no therapist. I barely passed Psych 101.
I ease my foot off the gas and park my lame-ass, I’d-rather-eat-a-bucket-of-oysters Toyota Corolla. Gotta hate rental cars. “Nervous?” I ask.
“Are scared out of my mind and nervous the same thing?”
“Would it help if I mentioned you look hot when you’re nervous? Especially in that hat.” Her skin still glows from Belize, a few freckles below her tan. I swallow past the pressure on my chest and focus on her strawberry lips, on her trim patchwork jacket, tight ripped jeans, and ankle boots. My Lily.
She tugs down the sides of her red knit toque and pulls her loose hair over her shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”