Page 19 of When We Were Reckless
Fuck, she was beautiful like this. Barefoot in a thin white tank top and tiny orange terry cloth shorts. Quinn was built like a ballerina. Flat stomach, small breasts, toned legs.
When she lost her balance and stumbled, I strode toward her. The guy she was with—I hadn’t even noticed him before—caught her in his arms and pulled her against his chest. She looked up at him, laughing, and then his lips met hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides.
Motherfucker was kissing her. Touching her.Mysunshine girl.
In two seconds flat, I was at her side and pulling her away from him.
“Hey. The fuck are you doing?” The dude was pissed. Too fucking bad.
Ignoring him, I grabbed Quinn’s hand and dragged her away from the party.
“What are you doing?” she asked as I strode across the kitchen with her in tow, her shorter legs having to jog a little to keep up with me. She tried to yank her hand out of mine, but I kept it firmly clasped. Not happening.
We stopped in a dimly lit terracotta-tiled hallway at the bottom of the staircase, and she pressed her back against the wall and crossed her arms.
I planted a hand on either side of her head, caging her in, and leaned in close. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The real question was,What the fuck was I doing?
She looked up at me from under her long dark lashes, with those big hazel eyes of hers. “I’m having fun. Just being a teenager. Because that’s all I am. Right, Jesse? A sheltered girl who couldn’tpossiblyunderstand anything about the real world.”
She swiped her tongue over her pouty lips.
Lips that had just been kissing someone else.
Tempting lips that beckoned and teased. I wanted to crush my mouth against hers, bite and suck on that plump bottom lip. Keep kissing her until I sucked all the oxygen from her lungs, and her lips were so swollen and bruised, the memory of that other kiss would be forgotten.
My gaze lowered to her tank top, the outline of a purple bikini top visible underneath, her chest rapidly rising and falling on each breath as if she’d just finished a 200-meter dash. Then up to her mouth again. She tugged her bottom lip between her straight white teeth, and I didn’t know if it was a calculated move, but it was fucking hot.
I took deep breaths through my nose, trying to get my body in check, and inhaled the scent of grapefruit. Quinn wasn’t allowed to eat grapefruit, so she chose to wear it on her skin instead.
The forbidden fruit was always the sweetest, wasn’t it?
“You let someone else kiss you.” I lifted my hand to her face and swept away a lock of honey blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. The backs of my fingers brushed over her jawline and traced the curve of her cheekbone.
So young, so innocent, so fucking beautiful.
“What’s it to you,friend?”
Cupping her chin in my hand, I slowly dragged my thumb over her pink, pouty lips and wiped away all traces of that other guy’s mouth on hers.
Her eyes drifted shut, and a small breath escaped her lips as my hand moved to the side of her neck. I could feel her pulse thrumming beneath my fingertips. I leaned in closer, close enough that her chest heaved against mine, her tits crushed against my hard chest.
“Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy that kiss?” I asked, my voice low and husky. I wrapped my other hand around her hip and made lazy circles with my thumb on the soft skin just above the waistband of her shorts.
I shouldn’t have been touching her like this.
I shouldn’t have been jealous of an eighteen-year-old guy for kissing a girl who wasn’t mine. But I couldn’t fucking stand the thought of anyone else touching her. Kissing those bee-stung lips. Watching her dance like she was putting on a private show just for him.
“What are you doing here, Jesse?” Her voice no louder than a whisper as my fingers tangled in her soft, silky hair. Just as if I had any right to be doing that. “Why are you here?” she asked again.
I wanted to tell her that I came over to see her. That my whole fucking world had fallen apart, and I felt hollowed out and empty. I wanted to tell her that I’d taken my bike to the track every morning this week and raced against a stopwatch just to prove to myself that I could still do it. But every fucking time, I’d failed to get even close to what I used to be able to do.
For the past two days, after I finished a thirty-minute moto, I had arm pump. I’d never had that before. It was this mysterious ailment that happens to motocross racers sometimes. When your arms go numb, and they feel like concrete blocks and fly right off the grips.
And I wanted to tell her that when I saw her with another guy, it felt like she was cheating on me. Like the sight of her dancing and kissing another guy was a betrayal. Which made zero fucking sense.
