Page 77 of Forbidden Lyrics

“Either?” I question. “Who doesn’t deserve me, Gibson?”

Jaw clenching, he shakes his head and tears his gaze from mine as if he can’t even look at me.

“Get in the car, Dove.”

“Will you stop deflecting?” I beg. “Who doesn’t deserve me?”

Tortured, he looks down at me again. “I’m not good for you, Dove.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone who’s ever met us.”

“And you care what they think?”

“You deserve better than a one-night stand.”

“How do you know what I deserve?” I challenge him.

“Dove––”

“Maybe I deserve to live a little. Maybe I deserve to be wanted. Did you ever think of that?”

His eyes widen in surprise. But it’s the hurt that really gets me. Like I’ve slapped him by stating the obvious. Because it is obvious he doesn’t want me. Since the moment I started working at SeaBird, he’s been distant. Cold. Only recently have we started to actually connect. Even now, I’m afraid that it’s simply because Fender wants me to tour with them. And any time we’ve danced along the edge of the cliff I’m desperate to jump from, he’s always pushed me back to safety under the guise of friendship.

It’s bullshit.

Absolute. Total. Bullshit.

And this high and mighty doesn’t deserve me crap that he’s spouting right now?

That’s bullshit too.

“You think I don’t want you?” he murmurs.

“I think you’ve set up imaginary boundaries and have put me in a neat little box that says don’t touch without even bothering to ask me what I want,” I spit. “Am I wrong?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what you want––”

“Oh, I don’t? Why not? Because I’m sweet, innocent little Dovey? Maybe I don’t want to be sweet anymore. Maybe I don’t want to be innocent. Maybe I want you to stop putting up stupid barriers and stupid red tape around what I can and can’t do.” My chest heaves from pent-up frustration. Or maybe I’m finally unraveling after what the heck happened inside with Marty. Regardless, I’m tired of it. All of it. The assumptions. The boundaries. The regret of being too much of a coward to go after what I want.

It’s all bullshit.

Gibson grabs my face, forcing me to hold his heated stare. “You don’t get it, Dove. I’m trying to protect you––”

“Then stop!” I shout, finally snapping. “My parents used to say they were protecting me, Gibson. And it was a load of bullshit they were spewing to control me. And I’m sick of it. Maybe I don’t want you to protect me. Maybe I want you to use me. Kiss me. Get under my skin. Chew me up and spit me out. I’m tired of being protected. I’m tired of being the stupid, sheltered girl that no one wants to––”

His mouth slams on mine as he swallows my protest whole.

I gasp, my heart still pounding a million beats per minute as he glides his tongue along the seam of my lips before forcing his way into my mouth. Squeezing my eyes shut, I claw at his T-shirt like I can’t get close enough. Like I’m on the edge of that stupid cliff and am ready to leap. To fall. To feel alive for an instant, even if I know the fallout will break me.

Because for once, he isn’t pushing me away. He’s pulling me closer. And I can’t get enough of him.

His fingers dig into my upper thighs, branding me with their force as he picks me up and carries me around the corner of the nearest house. I hook my legs around his waist and let him take me to a secluded spot where the streetlight refuses to touch. There’s a low half-wall made of brick that separates the houses. Perfectly trimmed hedges line it, adding to the private ambiance radiating from our little nook between yards.

Unfortunately, I’m too distracted by his kiss to appreciate it. Honestly, we could be in the middle of the dance floor at Marty’s future house, and I wouldn’t give a crap. As long as Gibson Hayes keeps kissing me, I’ll be a happy camper.

Holy crap.

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