Page 91 of Wrath

As we walk into the driveway, I reach out and catch his hand again. Give it a squeeze. DG’s face is fucking glowing as he turns toward me. I glance around; of course, no one is here. I bring his hand to my mouth, brush my lips over his knuckles. His cheeks go red.

I guess I’m smiling big, because he whispers, “What?”

I let his hand go and pinch one of his cheeks. And then I kiss it. Quick as hell, and afterward, my stomach twists until he looks around and murmurs, “No one saw.”

I lean in closer and inhale in his direction. “You smell good, Mills.”

“You taste good,” he whispers.

“We both taste like Bubble Yum.”

“That fucking duck,” he smiles.

“You like the duck?” I ask him.

“Just think it’s funny.”

“Keeps it poppin’,” I say.

He snickers. “What?”

“That’s the slogan.”

“No it’s not.”

“It is, too,” I tell him. “That’s what the duck said.”

“I don’t think ducks can talk, Ez.”

“That one did. In old commercials. I swear.”

“Did he?” Mills looks mystified as we walk up the porch stairs.

I’m unlocking the door when I look over my shoulder to smirk at him. No real reason. Just like to smirk at Mills. I find him smiling—this little crooked smile—and I want to leave the keys there in the door and turn around and hug him so damn tight.

I don’t hug him on the porch, but when we step inside, I can’t stop myself. I kiss him once more, too, dragging my tongue against his, running my fingers into the soft hair at the back of his head. I squeeze his nape, the kind of squeeze that always feels good to me when sports massage people do it.

“Get dinner with me,” I whisper.

DG’s blue eyes widen, and I laugh, because I’m as surprised as he is by my request. “Let’s get pizza and then watch a movie,” I say.

His face changes so he looks more guarded, and he moves back a little, which makes my hand lose its grip on his hair.

“What do you want to watch?” he murmurs.

“It can be anything,” I tell him.

Say yes.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m holding the front door open for him. We’re stepping out onto the porch together, Mills in ripped jeans and a magenta Rocky Horror T-shirt. He got a quick shower while I fumbled around in my room, looking for the “Praise Be, Bitches” shirt I got from a girl I knew.

I lock the house and stride ahead of him to open the passenger door of my Jeep. He pauses before getting in, squinting at my shirt.

“The Handmaid’s Tale,” I tell him.

“Oh, right. I’ve seen some of that.”

“Good stuff.”

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