Page 148 of Holding On To Good

“I don’t think so,” she said, slow and thoughtful. “We both know you can get sex from a number of willing girls. Girls who—what was it you said that night I texted you?—oh, right. You prefer girls who know the score. Who aren’t looking for more than a good time. Not good girl virgins whose sexual experience extends to a few heavy make-out sessions and one successful hand job.”

Virgin.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He’d suspected she was inexperienced but hearing her admit she’d never been with anyone was like a kick to the gut.

And for some fucked up reason, even more of an enticement.

Then three other words sank in.

Successful hand job.

His jaw ached with the effort it took to keep his mouth shut. To not ask who she’d touched. What she meant, exactly, by successful.

Though he could guess.

“You’re right,” he said, when he trusted himself to speak. “I’m not interested in being any girl’s first.”

Which was such bullshit, he was surprised he wasn’t knee deep in it.

He wanted to be her first. Wanted to be the first guy to make her come with his hand. His mouth. Wanted to be the first guy she gave a blow job to. Wanted to be the first one to be inside of her.

Selfish bastard that he was, he wanted to corrupt her, to take her innocence and show her all the hot, filthy ways they could make each other feel good.

“But if you want to practice your hand job skills on me,” he continued like the asshole he was, “I wouldn’t say no.”

Her gaze dropped to his cock and Christ help him, he about groaned out loud.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug that had the neck of her sweatshirt sliding down to expose one bare shoulder. “You know what they say. Practice makes perfect.”

And she reached for his dick.

He leaped back.

She crossed her arms with a grim, satisfied smile. “You are so full of it. Like I said, this isn’t about sex. This whole thing you’ve got going on, showing up here and acting like such a grade-A jerk, is because you like me.”

He tensed. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess.”

“You like me,” she repeated and damn if she didn’t start moving toward him, forcing him to take a step back for every one she took forward. “And you hate it because it pushes you to do things you wouldn’t normally do. Things you don’t want to do. Like help get my car out of that ditch, or go with me and Ian to get ice cream, or show up at a party with people you can’t stand just in the hopes of catching me with some other boy so you can tell yourself I’m messing with you. But I’m not. I’m not messing with you. I wasn’t with Brandon or any of the other guys who flirted with me tonight. I didn’t want to be with any of them because I was waiting for you.”

He stumbled, tripping over a stone, then caught his balance and lurched to the side, looking for an escape from her slow, steady pursuit. Her soft honesty and hesitant confession.

But he went left when he should’ve gone right and found his back pressed against the driver’s side door of his truck.

“I get it, you know. I get why liking me makes you so angry. Why it scares you,” she added, her voice dropping to a low hum that vibrated along his nerve endings.

And he knew whatever she was about to say was going to knock him flat on his ass.

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

But this was Verity Jennings with her too-smart brain and perfect life.

No one stopped her from doing something she wanted to do.

“I get it,” she told him again, “because I…” She stopped. Swallowed, then sank her upper teeth into her lower lip. For a second, a brief moment in time, he thought he’d finally, finally gotten a fucking break.

But then she released her lip, inhaled, and he learned again how unfair life was.

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