Page 147 of Holding On To Good

“No,” he drew out slowly.

She shrugged. “Well, then. There’s your answer.”

“Show me your hands.”

“Oh, for the love of…” She uncrossed her arms and waved her hands—her empty hands—at him. “Happy?”

Not even a little.

But he did feel safe enough to speak. “He wants you.”

He expected her to blush. To stammer and stutter and deny it.

Hadn’t he already learned this girl never did what he expected?

“Yeah, I got that a couple hours ago when he slid his hand up my leg and asked if I wanted to check out the back seat of his car which, unbelievably, isn’t the lamest come-on I’ve ever heard.”

Fuck.

Fuck!

He’d known it. He’d known that asshole would try something.

Is that why you’re here? You were hoping to catch me with Brandon?

Yes. That was exactly why he was there. He’d wanted to see, with his own eyes, her with some other guy. One with clean hands and parents who paid his way. With a spotless past and a future far from Mount Laurel.

Needed to see it.

Thank Christ he hadn’t.

Because just the thought of Brandon’s hand on her leg, his fingers curling around her inner thigh, had fury roaring through Reed. But he’d given into that kind of rage, that feeling of helplessness, too many times before. Had let it control him for too long.

Until he’d realized if he didn’t make a change, he was going to end up in prison or dead.

Worse, he was going to end up like his old man. Pissed off and bitter. Mean.

Hopeless.

“Tell me you went with him,” he said, unable to let this go.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, confused.

Hurt.

Looking at her in the moonlight with her hair down and her legs bare, he had no fucking clue what he was doing. Or why.

All he knew was that after hanging out with her twice, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was in his head. Had seeped into his blood like a drug. One he wanted more and more of.

One he could easily become addicted to.

“If you tell me you let him touch all that pretty, pale skin,” Reed said softly, taking a step forward, “then maybe I’ll stop wanting to touch you.” She inhaled sharp and quick and he took another step. “If you tell me he kissed you, maybe then I’ll stop wanting to know what you taste like. Here.” He lifted his hand, held it in front of her mouth. Her lips parted. “And here.” Lowered his hand to indicate between her thighs. She trembled. “If you tell me you let him fuck you, then I’ll know you’re just messing around with me. Maybe then,” he continued, voice dropping to a low, gruff, note as he closed the distance between them, “I’ll stop wanting to fuck you myself.”

His words hung in the air between them, a crude confession, as she stared at him, wide-eyed and flushed.

But then she blinked. Shook her head. “This isn’t about sex.”

He smirked. Added a bit of smolder to it. “It’s always about sex.”

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