Page 25 of Pretty Broken Things

His hazel eyes are darker, the pupils blown wide with lust. My senses are too overwhelmed for me to form a response. Instead I let my fingers lightly graze across his skin, letting them trail over the rippling muscles of his chest and stomach.

“I won’t be able to control myself if you don’t stop,” he warns.

Why do I want to test him so badly? The respectful thing to do would be to slow down at the very least. Instead, I lightly scrape my nails over his skin, and watch goosebumps spread behind my touch. “Aren’t you sick of always having to be in control? Always afraid to say or do the wrong thing, because not being perfect will make people leave? Because it has never fucking mattered how good my grades are, or that I’m still a virgin. My mom is still gone, my dad ignores me, and everyone at school still thinks I’m a slut. I’m done doing what I’m supposed to. If I’m going to be judged I might as well let go and actually do what I want.”

His voice drops to a low timber that slides across my skin like a caress, making me tingle with anticipation. “And what do you want, Tessa?”

A riot of butterflies erupts in my belly, and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. The next thing I say will seal my fate, it’s the most thrilling and terrifying moment of my life. I can somehow understand how people get addicted to extreme sports, not that being with Ford is the same as bungee jumping, but my heart is racing as if it was.

My throat is tight, but I manage to say, “You. I thought that was obvious.”

Waiting for him to react has my stomach dropping and me holding my breath. The sound of my pulse whooshes in my ears. I feel a little dizzy, even though I’m laying down.

“I won’t let you take it back,” he warns me.

My hand shakes as I lift it to stroke his jaw. “I don’t want to,” I whisper.

A look of resolve crosses his face as he leans down to kiss me again. The fight I felt from him before has vanished. Instead of the heated frenzy from moments before, this kiss is lazy. There’s no sense that time is working against us. Even better, I don’t feel like I’m working against his wishes. He wants me as much as I want him, and neither of us are looking for a distraction. At least, that’s not what we’re looking for with each other.

“Can you stay with me tonight?” I ask him.

He buries his face in the cushion. “You’re killing me, Vixen,” he groans into the sofa. “I’m trying so hard to be a good guy, for once, and you’re making it impossible.”

I take a deep breath. “I know I should tell you to forget I asked, because I don’t want to pressure you, and I look pretty fucking pathetic right now. However, I’ll accept being pathetic right now, because it beats the hell out of spending another birthday alone.”

“It’s your birthday?” he asks as he sits up. He grabs my hand and pulls me up right. I guess the moment is over.

I wrinkle my nose, and nod. I’m not sure why I’m embarrassed to admit it’s my birthday. Everyone has one. Mine isn’t any more special than anyone else’s, probably less, actually. After my mom left, my dad forgot about things like birthdays. Maybe it’s because it’s my eighteenth birthday, but this one has been harder to spend alone. Unbearable even.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

I shrug. “The only thing more pitiful than spending your birthday alone, is begging people to spend it with you. Which I guess I’m kinda doing now.”

Ford kisses my forehead before he stands up. “I wish you’d told me earlier. I didn’t get you anything.”

“No way. I didn’t tell you as a way to get presents. As you’ve pointed out before, I don’t need any more shit. I’ve got too much stuff as it is. The only thing I don’t have is family to spend the day with,” I reply.

“I could have at least gotten you a cake,” he mumbles.

I reach out and put my hand on his forearm. “I don’t want you spending money on me. Not because I pity you or something, but sometimes I think people use money to keep from having to actually express any feeling. My dad doesn’t hesitate to throw money at me, but there’s no sentiment behind his gifts.”

His hands frame my face. “I don’t think you’re pitiful. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend your birthday with people you care about.” He holds out his hand to me, and jerks his head toward the door. “C’mon, Vixen, let’s go make you a cake.”

* * *

There’s flour everywhere,including Ford’s face. One batch got scrapped because he got eggshells in the batter. The second batch he somehow misread the recipe and put in baking soda instead of baking powder, of which he also used a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon. It did not taste good.

Watching him try so hard is sweet, but after a while I decide to cut him some slack. In the pantry I find a cake mix. I’m not even sure why it’s here, my housekeeper rarely bakes for me, and I certainly don’t spend much time in the kitchen.

I set the box in front of him. “I really appreciate how hard you’re trying. Seriously, nobody has put this much effort into anything where I’m concerned, in a long time. But—” I tap the box, “there’s a much easier way to do this.”

He looks around the kitchen, and shakes his head. “Did you have to let me destroy your kitchen before you brought that out?”

“You seemed so confident in your baking abilities. I didn’t want to insult you with box cake.”

Ford takes a menacing step toward me, and I take one back away from him. “Don’t you dare,” I warn him as I run around the island.

“Don’t do what?” He reaches inside the bag of flour and comes out with a handful. “Don’t ruin your ugly clothes?”

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