Page 92 of Throttle

“Why now? Why suddenly? I can't continue doing this with you anymore. You either want me or you don’t.”

Lust. Need. Hunger. All of them flicker within his eyes.

“From the moment we met, I've never stopped wanting you. I just—couldn’t allow myself to have you.”

I give him a shove in the chest, but he barely budges. “Then why? Why say nothing before?”

“You didn’t deserve the life I offered you. To be my ol’ lady would mean risks. But I’m accepting of that now. I will protect you, and our relationship would solidify it.”

“So, you want to be with me so you can protect me?”

He shakes his head. “Christ. No.” He moves in again, but this time I step back, and he stops. “I’m saying I want to give this a shot. Take a chance on us, even though I'm aware of the risks. But I refuse to let it hinder me any longer. I want you, Tequila. I want this. Us.” He waves a hand between me and him.

My head is spinning. He's finally admitting that he wants us to be together, but I can't agree. My heart won’t allow it this time. The new me won’t say yes.

Struggling to find the right words, I turn around and start walking toward the stairs. “I—I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

His rugged hand clasps into mine. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.” His warmth fills every bareness of my skin.

I gaze into his captivating golden-brown eyes.

“I want to do this right. No more fucking around. Let me prove to you how serious I am,” he pleads.

My knees want to give out. If I don't leave now, I might end up accepting his offer and surrendering.

I've found the right words. “Not long ago, we were here, and you said we couldn't become more than what we are. You've changed your mind and want to take me on a date now? Forgive me if I don’t scream yes and jump for joy.”

He brushes his disheveled hair with his inked hand. “I know. I was an idiot. But—”

“I’m going to bed. It’s late and I’m tired.” With a sigh, I ascend the stairs to my room. “I’ll think about the date. Goodnight.”

I don’t dare look back.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Tequila

“Oh! This looks amazing on you.” Jules twirls a finger in the air. “Spin,” she orders, and I obey. “Yes! This is the one. I love it.”

“Finally.” Angel appears from the dressing room. “I can't handle trying on another piece of clothing without getting food inside me.” She’s angelic in her pale blue bridesmaid gown. It embraces each curve and cascades along the back. She looks like a model in every way, shape, and form.

“I’m starving too. The little one in here is screaming at me.” Our bride pats her belly.

Angel emerges from the curtain, her head visible once more. “These are stunning, Jules.”

“I know. My taste is excellent.” She chuckles and both me and Angel change out of them.

Once we're dressed, we pass them on to the seamstress, who takes precise measurements and notes down all the details.

“Thanks for being here today, ladies.” Jules links each arm with one of ours.

“Duh. We’re your bridesmaids.” Angel rests her head on top of hers and we continue down the sidewalk to the closest coffee shop.

She decided to not have a maid of honor. She claimed it was impossible for her to decide between us two. If it were my wedding, my emotions toward them would be identical.

As we enter the cafe, the freedom of being unaccompanied feels great. The guys only agreed because Angel would join us and she's as dangerous as the boys. If not more lethal. It took Charger a lot of encouraging though.

We place our order, take our seats, and they stare at me.

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