Page 51 of Fireworks Flame
My forehead skims against his as a surge of fruity liquor fills my mouth, but I don’t pull back. I’m spurred by the way his blue eyes have darkened with intent, the taunting jerk of his Adam’s apple as he tries to take more than his share. It’s impossible to know if this is just about the beverage I’ve stolen or if it has more to do with the meatball I snaked off his plate last night. But if it’s the latter, it can’t go unanswered. My meatball theft was a completely justified response to the coffee he’d robbed me of earlier in the day. Especially given the fact that he complained about the chemical aftertaste of the artificial sweetener after each sip but still managed to come back enough times to drain at least half my cup.
Brain freeze hits as the straw hits dry air with a sputter. I yelp at the same moment Deiss groans, and through the fingers that fly up to press against my forehead, I spot him cupping his own. I don’t know if it’s the absurdity of our pain, the adrenaline rush from the inhaled cocktail, or just the shot of liquor that’s gone to my head, but laughter bubbles out of me, elated and only mildly taunting.
Deiss rolls his eyes, but I spot the smile that tugs at his mouth before he shakes his head at me. “You used to be so classy.”
“And you used to have hair.” I reach for his chin, sliding the back of my knuckles down the prickly stubble.
He catches my hand as I pull away, tugging it up to rub it over his scalp. “I still have hair.”
Just like I imagined, it’s softer than it looks, silky even. The feel of it makes my skin go warm as the image of him bent over my body flashes through my mind. Like in some lurid scene out of a dirty film, his mouth explores me, chin scratching at my skin just enough that I can feel every spot he’s touched as my hand slips through silk, urging him on. I’m shocked by the thrill the unwanted vision produces, the way the combination of coarse and smooth excites something deep and primal inside of me.
I yank my hand free, flashing a smile to cover my dismay. I’ve never minded the fact that I’m attracted to Deiss because Lucas Deiss is an empirically attractive person. It wasn’t even that disconcerting to discover he could seduce me if he chose to. In my mind, his ability to overcome my senses was more about him than it was about me.This, though. Me succumbing to something that can only be defined as lust. Giving in, after all these years, to some silly, throbbing, one-sided crush. It’s as ridiculous as it is embarrassing.
And it’d be one hundred percent against therules.
CHAPTER 16
I blink against the sun as we exit the restaurant. It feels overly bright, as if it’s either celebrating our debauchery or chastising us for it. The cheerful breeze that riffles the bottom of my skirt makes it seem like it might be the former, so I smile up at the sky.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been drunk in the middle of a weekday before,” I say as our Uber pulls up. Phoebe has gone to Mac’s to sober up for the drive home, but we’re headed back to Sounds because Deiss doesn’t want Mia to get stuck there when Booker inevitably shows up late for his four o’clock shift.
“It’s not a weekday,” Deiss says after we greet the driver and settle into the back seat of the little green car that smells like fries.
“It’s Friday,” I say, looking out the window at the colorful signs that line the street and the colorfully dressed people beneath them. With their maps and disposable water bottles, the tourists are easy to spot.
“Friday is part of the weekend. You said so when we were talking about dating.”
“No.” I roll the window down to feel the wind on my skin. My head is spinning, but in an enjoyable way. “Friday night is part of the weekend. Fri-dayis part of the workweek, which makes it a weekday.”
“But I work on Saturdays,” Deiss says, his leg pressing against mine. The heat of it radiates through the thin material of my skirt in an exhilarating way. “Does that make it a weekday?”
“No.” I scoot closer toward the door so our legs are no longer touching, but I glance over my shoulder and flash him a grin, my eyes skimming just past his. “That makes you a chump who works on the fun days.”
“Nice,” he says as I turn back toward the window. “Very supportive.”
I laugh, giddy with alcohol and a strange nervousness.
We travel for a few more blocks in silence, and the driver turns on the radio. We’ve brought a weird energy into his car, with our mindless debate and me so close to the window he probably thinks I’m going to shove my head through it and start barking. My hair flies around my head like a shield of golden whips, which was not intended as a tactic but is a welcome side effect.
“Do you feel sick?” Deiss asks over the tinny pop song that plays through the speakers.
“No.” The word twists with defensiveness, and I glance back at him in spite of myself, searching for some explanation for the question.
He meets my eyes, his lighter against the brightness of the sun, glittering like sapphires. My stomach fills with butterflies, fluttering anxiously. I try to turn away, but he places his hand on my arm.
“Hey,” he says softly. A strand of hair whips around myneck, and he reaches up, his fingers sliding across my skin as he pulls it free. “You know I don’t really expect you to stay with me forever.”
“I know,” I mumble, distracted by his hand resting on my shoulder, still holding back my hair.
“It’s just that you pretty much stopped looking at me after that conversation.” His eyes scan my face like he’s searching for answers in the curve of my cheek or the bow of my upper lip.
I force a breezy laugh. “What are you talking about? I’ve looked at you.”
“No, you haven’t.” His confidence in the assertion is as resolute as it is warranted.
The truth is, Ihaven’tlooked at him, not since right after that when the bizarre lustiness occurred. I just need a little bit of space to get my head right, to get things back to normal between us. I need him to be the Deiss he was before, enigmatic and distant, not the new, open Deiss.
But that can’t be right, is it?
