Page 87 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

If the girl’s trying to give me blue balls, it’s working.

“Theo?” she prods.

Realizing I’ve been caught staring like a creep, I shake my head and close the passenger door, rounding the front of the car and climbing behind the wheel.

As the car rumbles to life, I can’t help but glance at her again. The silky smooth skin along her arms and stomach. The freckles playing peekaboo on her shoulders, cheeks, and the bridge of her nose. Even with nothing but the glow from the dashboard, she’s fucking perfect.

“Are we gonna go? Or…?” she prods.

I swear I’m losing my fucking mind.

Tonight isn’t about lust. Or at least, it isn’t supposed to be. It isn’t about claiming her. Not yet, anyway. It’s about making amends. It’s about fixing what I’d broken by sleeping with her in the first place. It’s about earning another chance and showing her she isn’t like other girls. And she isn’t just Colt’s little sister. Not to me.

But if that’s the case, why is the thought of getting her naked all I can think about? I want to drive somewhere quiet, lay the seats down, and teach her how to ride my cock while straddling me as I suck her tits into my mouth. I want to scream, “She’s mine,” from the rooftops without giving a shit about Coach’s rule in regards to dating her. Without giving a shit about anything but the next time I can have this girl naked and under me. The next time I can make her smile or hear her laugh. The next time I can hold her hand or see her mouth, vacuum beach while wearing my hat just to get under my skin.

But it’s not why I’m here, I remind myself.

I clear my throat and shove the car into reverse, backing down the driveway and pulling onto the street.

“So, uh, favorite song?” I ask. My knuckles are tight around the steering wheel as I fight for a distraction, for a normal conversation, though I refuse to look at her. I’m not sure I can.

“What?” she returns.

“I wanna know your favorite song.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Anything by Broken Vows or Group Project. You?”

I glance her way. “Group Project?”

With a gasp, she says, “Tell me you’ve heard of Group Project.”

I shake my head. She raises her hand, palm facing up. “Where’s your phone?”

“My phone?”

“So I can play a song on Spotify, Teddy.” Impatient, she reaches into my jeans’ front pocket and pulls it out, barely grazing my dick––that’s now standing at full attention––with her dainty little fingers.

Yup. She’s trying to kill me.

Once a song is playing through the speakers, I try not to stare as she sings along. The girl’s terrible and can’t sing for shit, but the confidence emanating from her tiny frame as she dances in my passenger seat is the sexiest––and most awkward––thing I’ve ever seen.

As the song ends, she turns down the volume and asks, “So? What’d you think?”

“I think it’s adorable you know all the lyrics.”

“Damn straight, I do. Now, show me a song where you know all the lyrics.”

I smirk as she hands me my phone, my choice already locked and loaded. When the introduction to “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel plays through the speakers, she laughs and joins in, spouting off the lyrics word-for-word.

Macklin used to drive Colt, Logan, Blake, and me to school when we were kids. He always had a thing for old music. Most of it would make us cringe, but there were a few songs we couldn’t get enough of. This was one of them. I’m not sure what it was about being able to keep up with the legend himself, but we used to love blasting this song and calling out the other person when they got the lyrics wrong.

My grin widens as I catch Blake jamming out to the chorus, and when the song ends a little while later, she turns down the volume, adjusts my baseball hat on her head, and asks, “So how’s Mack doing? I ran into him at one of your games, but he was kind of stand-offish. Last I heard he was married––”

“Divorced, actually.”

She grimaces. “Aaaand that explains so much. Ouch. They were together forever. What happened?”

“I dunno. I guess even people who get together in middle school can change over the years.”

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