Home > Between the Lines (Between the Lines #1)(33)

Between the Lines (Between the Lines #1)(33)
Author: Tammara Webber

He walks past me and drops into one of the chairs and I sit on the bed, folding my legs under me. “Do you wanna watch something?” he asks, tilting his head towards the television. “Or… I could interrogate you, find out all your secrets.”

My bed is unmade, covers and pillows askew, the only light in the room coming from one small lamp and flashing MTV images. From a lifetime of reading scene settings, I know this setting is the definition of intimate. “You already know more than a lot of people know about me,” I say. “I’m relatively boring.”

“Mmm, I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t even know the basic stuff. Like, how old are you?” He leans forward in the chair, elbows on knees.

“Well, that’s certainly a stimulating topic. I’m seventeen, for another two months and…” I count in my head “…three weeks.”

“So, eighteen in less than three months.”

“Yeah… is that surprising?”

“Well, you look as though you could be younger than that, but you seem older, more mature. It isn’t surprising; I just wasn’t sure.”

“So how old are you? Twenty?”

“Yep, since June. How’d you know?”

I am not telling him that I Internet stalked him. “Well, you seem younger than that, very immature, in fact, but you look older…” I laugh at the shocked look on his face, and then he growls and starts out of the chair. Backing farther onto the bed, I shake my head, still laughing. “Noooo…”

“So I look like an immature old guy, is that what you’re saying?” One corner of his mouth turns up as he puts a knee on the bed, following me.

“Positively decrepit.” I hold my hands out in what’s clearly simulated protection as he advances. I’m almost to the other side of the bed when he grabs both of my hands in one of his, sweeping his opposite arm around my waist and pulling me towards him. In two seconds, I’m flat on my back and he’s on his knees next to me.

He releases one wrist long enough to catch it with his other hand, and he flattens my hands to the bed on either side of my head. His eyes are black in the low light of the room. “Do you surrender?”

My heart is pounding, and I’m tingling from head to toe. “Surrender to what?” I whisper, my chest rising and falling, my eyes locked on his.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “A kiss.”

Images flash through my mind: the sincerity of his concern when I told him about losing my mother. The feel of him sitting next to me this morning, soaked through and touching my face. The jolt of seeing him exiting Brooke’s room a few minutes ago. None of this adds up, or makes sense, and I want to care about that, but I can’t find the will to resist—not just him, but my own desire, or curiosity, or something. I don’t care what. I want that kiss.

He loosens his hold, starts to draw back because I haven’t answered.

“Yes,” I breathe, and he freezes.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

He trails his fingers over the side of my face, temple to neck, tracing a path, neck to waist. His right hand moves palm to palm with my left, intertwines our fingers as he lowers his head, and then his mouth is moving over mine, softly, carefully. I squeeze the hand holding mine and shift closer to him, clutching his shirt in my free hand, and he deepens the kiss, stretching out next to me, one knee hooked over my thigh. The hand at my waist progresses down over my hip, moving over my bare leg to the sensitive spot behind my knee. His hand is warm on my skin, drawing my leg over his until we’re tangled together in the middle of the bed, his opposite shoulder under my head, his arm encircling me. His tongue traces my lips softly, parting them, thrusting inside. I moan, opening my mouth and pressing as close to him as I can get.

Too soon, he pulls away, both of us panting, sucking air as though we’ve been underwater. Teasing his fingers through my hair, he pushes a strand behind my ear, and I close my eyes as he cradles my head in his hand, the pad of his thumb stroking my cheek and jaw. Our heartbeats slow as we lie there, hardly moving, for several minutes.

“I’d better go.” His voice is low and rough, full of what he doesn’t say.

I open my eyes to stare into his, wanting to protest, but no coherent words come. His eyes are so dark there is no color to them at all, just guarded depths, full of thoughts and motivations I can’t decipher.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, extracting himself slowly from my legs and hands. He leans over me, kissing my forehead, turning and padding from the room without a backward glance. I lie motionless except for the in and out of my breath, the beat of my heart, the pulse through my veins. Almost convinced I’ve dreamed the entire interlude, I fall asleep, and do dream it. Over and over.

Chapter 20

REID

Walt is into a my-body’s-a-temple phase. I don’t judge—I mean maybe he hit a wall. He was going pretty hardcore for a while, getting into shit I won’t even touch. And I’ve touched a lot. We’re at the bar they’ll be playing tomorrow, and while I’m on my second beer, Walt has charmed the chick bartender into heating water for a cup of tea (he brought his own Tazo).

Yeah, the half-Asian guy is having tea in the bar. And I’ll be goddamned if it couldn’t get him play from some of the girls nearby.

Bob, obviously still offended that I shot his avatar, sent Jeff with us tonight. Jeff is plenty imposing. He’s as much of a land mass as Bob, covered in tattoos, and has a single, thin scar running through one eyebrow, touching the cheek below and continuing off the jaw. At some point I’m going to be drunk enough to ask him how he got it. I just hope I remember his answer, if he gives it. Must be some story.

   
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