Page 43 of Never Kiss and Tell

I shake my head, starting toward my side. “No way. I’m not going into Dracula’s cave.”

His jaw ticks, his eyes smoldering and before I have a second to spare, he stoops down, lifting me over his shoulder.

“Charles, whatever your stupid middle name is, Coulter, put me down!” I screech, smacking at his backside because it’s theonly thing I can reach.

He responds by smacking me right where my ass meets my exposed upper legs and I squeak. The skin stings where he’d hit it, and he keeps his hand over the spot way longer than is appropriate. The front door to his house opens and I’m greeted with a cool blast of air. I look around at the living room as we pass by. It looks a lot like the other side of the house, only boring. There are no decorations, the curtains are a plain beige, matching the walls almost perfectly. The couch is a dark brown and so is the coffee table. EvenIcould do better.

“Who taught you how to decorate?”

Another smack hits me, this time higher.

I jerk in his grasp. “Stop doing that!” My cheeks flame red and heat floods my core as the small bites of pain burn on my skin — an odd sensation I’m definitely not used to.

“If you weren’t so mouthy, I wouldn’t have to,” he quips, passing the stairs that lead up to the upper bedroom. I briefly wonder what could be up there, imagining a scarlet room with a coffin right in the center and boards covering the windows.

“I like to think of my mouth as talented,” I quip. “Not mouthy.”

I can feel him tense under me and triumph trickles through me. “You want another?”

I shut up.

Abruptly, he deposits me on the kitchen counter and I almost bang my head on the upper cabinet.

“Are you this rough with all your sister’s friends?”

He steps up to the sink and starts washing the grease off his arms.

“You’re her only friend.”

I know that’s not true. While I’m her best friend, I know Andi has to have other people she hangs out with when I’m not around.

“Why do you want to go to a boring art show?” he asks, side-eying me.

“Art’s not boring,” I argue, gripping the edges of the counter and swinging my legs. Charlie watches the movement, his expression turning sour, but he doesn’t say anything. “I grew up in California. Everyone’s into art there.”

“Wouldn’t you rather make it yourself?” he asks, grabbing a towel and wetting it in soap and water.

“Oh no, I didn’t say I was an artist, just that I grew up in an artsy city. I would rather write my feelings than paint them.”

“Oh yeah, the writer.” He steps forward, grabbing my arm and dragging the cloth along the grease. Goosebumps pebble on my skin as his strong hand grips my wrist, holding my arm out.

“I should have known your house would be a meat locker,” I mutter, a shiver running up my spine. Charlie’s jaw ticks, his stare hard and knowing. He takes his time, running the warm rag over my arm until there’s not even a speck of grease. “I’m clean,” I say quietly when he doesn’t stop. My body is reacting to him, heaviness settling behind the lace material of my thong.

Charlie’s eyes flick to mine, dark around the edges, but light around the irises. He tosses the rag in the sink over his shoulder and steps in, caging me in by placing both hands on the counter on either side of my hips. His gaze burns as it travels down my face from my eyes to my lips. He’s so close I can smell thecologne on his skin, mixed with the summer heat. Oddly, my mouth waters.

“I’m going with you to whatever thisartshow is.”

I shake my head. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, considering your back has a big ol’ grease streak on it from you cave-manning me over your arm, I don’t think so.”

Charlie stands back and to my shock and horror, pulls the shirt over his head, revealing a hard, muscled body. He has a tattoo above his heart that reads Meré, another of a raven over his ribs, a small American flag and a creepy mask like what you would see on Broadway. I’ve never cared much about the hotness level of a man with tattoos versus a man without, but let me tell you — I’m an enlightened woman now. Charlie Coulter is as sinfully hot underneath his clothes as he is fully dressed. A smattering of hair down to the button of his jeans and my dark and twisted mind yearns to know what’s hiding under those, too. More tattoos?

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