Page 69 of Hold Me Today

Get a grip, man.

Instead of following the yellow brick road straight to sexual paradise, I wrench away and plant my hands on the steering wheel. At ten and two, like a good ol’, rule-abiding civilian.Like Saint-fucking-Nick. I draw in a sharp breath, trying my damned best to get a leash on my out-of-control lust. If we weren’t a dozen feet from her parents’ front door, I’d drag her over the center console and settle her pretty little ass right on my lap. I’d grind her down on me, until she either burst apart at the seams or started fumbling for my belt. Or both.

Jesus.

“I want to fuck you, Ermione.”

Facing the windshield as I am, all I can do is imagine her eyes going wide at my confession. “Then why—”

“Because when I do, it’s gonna be an all-night affair.” The rubber of the steering wheel under my palms grows hot when I tighten my grip.Keep your eyes on the street, Stamos.The street’s safe. Safer, at least, then how much I want to know exactly what it takes to make a woman like Mina come.I think of them all, shuffling through each option like a gluttonous man standing before a buffet. Me on my knees with my tongue playing with her clit. Me seated behind her, one curvy leg drawn up with her foot planted on my knee, exposing all of her to me as I thrust in, hard. Like my mouth has a mind of its own, I tack on, “Me, you, and that pussy of yours I want to devour.”

She releases one of her trademarked whimpers, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her push her beanie cap back like she’s too hot to keep it on. “I never took you for a dirty-talker in bed,” she says, voice brimming with need.

I cast my gaze over her, a quick sweep that sends heat straight to my hard-on. “Never have been,” I admit bluntly, “but every time I say something that makes those pretty lips of yours part in shock, it’s a win in my book.” It’s not only a win—it’s satisfaction like I’ve never known. I pause, collecting my thoughts before I give too much of myself away. “I like the way you gasp when I catch you off guard . . . more than I should.”

Silence greets me, hanging over my head like a guillotine of disapproval. But Mina only chuckles softly, as if she’s game to be surprised by me every day of the week. “Nick Stamos, the man who will go to any length to prove a person wrong.”

“Ermione Pappas,” I return in a voice carved from granite, my eyes locked on her flushed face, “a woman determined to bring chaos into my life. Careful, or I’ll get addicted.”

I watch her bite down on her bottom lip, and I know her well enough to recognize the tell; she’s doing all she can to stop from smiling. And then the tapping begins, a gentle drumming of her fingers on the center console.

“Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” I ask, slowly.

“Honestly? Probably not.”

I place my hand over hers, and the restless tapping eases into stillness. “Tell me anyway.”

23

Mina

“Do you ever just want to . . .” I drop my head back, trying to gather my thoughts. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“The beginning might be a good place.”

At Nick’s good-humored sarcasm, I feel another smile working its way onto my face. Which isnuts, honestly. There hasn’t been a single time in years where I’ve smiled when thinking about my mom or dad, and definitely not right after a trip down memory lane. Except that since stepping onto my parents’ front stoop, Nick has made me temporarily forget. First with the pom-poms and then with our hot-as-heck make-out session.

God, my sex clenches justthinkingabout it. His hand on my breast, his mouth ravaging mine with such slow, persistent thoroughness. The man is a walking sex machine. It’s like he knows what I need beforeIeven realize what I need. It’s an alarming thought, and I immediately glance to where his hand swallows mine.

When was the last time I held a man’s hand? I honestly can’t remember, and I’m not sure what that says about me. That I’m scared of commitment, probably. That I’m terrified of deep, complicated relationships, most definitely.

I think back to the last entry in my notebook and my sloppily written letters to GSN. I’m not completely clueless; I’m fully aware that my father’s attitude toward me all my life completely impacted the way I react to men and to dating. I guess I just never realized quite how much—not until tonight, when I stared at my life through a seventeen-year-old’s lens.

Nick’s fingers ghost over the back of my hand, pulling back.

I grab them before he can retreat fully, catching us both off guard by my assertiveness. He quirks one brow but goes along with it. This time, he sets the back of his hand on the center console as my fingers intertwine with his.

Don’t overthink it, I warn myself. After all, if I’m okay with letting him cup my breast, I can totally hold his hand.

Swallowing past the nerves lodged in my throat, I glance at the dashboard and breathe out through my nose. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in my own skin. It’s a weird way to put it, I guess. Maybe . . . maybe it’s better to say that I feel like I’m trying to claw out of myself.” I huff derisively. “That doesn’t make sense either.”

Nick squeezes my hand, and his deep, smoky voice swirls around with me like a ribbon of encouragement. “Try again,koukla.”

There he goes again with that endearment. I hate that I love it. I hate even more how it makes my toes curl and my knees clench together in a silent plea ofyes, more.

“I feel restless,” I confess, barely above a whisper. “I feel restless in my skin, in my life. When I said I wanted to move, it’s more that I need to get out, go somewhere, do something that makes me feel anything but the anxiety pulsing through me.”

With his thumb caressing mine, Nick murmurs, “Being at your parents’ makes you feel like this?”

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