Page 33 of Switch Hitter

“Okay… I get it.” Heat crawls up my neck.

My body reacts. My mind flashes back to the chain-link fence and his fingers laced with mine, anchoring me to the moment with him.

“Fuck you,” I mutter.

“Maybe later,” he says, smirking like he’s accepting an offering. “I’d rather talk to you this way.”

Sex is easy with him.

Sex is simple. It’s rage, heat, control, and release. It’s a place where I can pretend I’m not making a choice because it’s just bodies.

It’s not love.

It’s not a kiss or us sharing our feelings.

I see the shift in his eyes, and he sees mine too. My mouth opens before my brain can stop it.

“This is a bad idea,” I say.

Emiliano’s gaze drifts to my mouth. “Yeah.”

I swallow. “So you should probably leave.”

He steps closer anyway, and my heart kicks like it wants to jump out of my throat and run for me.

His voice drops, soft and dangerous. “If you really want me to leave, say it.”

My body leans into him instead of pulling back. I hate that I want to grab his shirt and pull him into me and bite down on my own panic until it shuts up.

Emiliano watches me like he already knows.

“You’re going to try to do it again,” he says quietly.

My brows knit. “Do what?”

He holds my gaze, and his steadiness makes me want to crawl out of my skin. “You’re going to try to use sex to avoid talking.”

My face burns. “That’s not what I’m doing,” I lie.

“Sure it’s not. You’re just standing there, breathing hard the closer I get to you, panting while you undress me with those pretty green eyes of yours.”

I step closer to him, and whisper, “You don’t know what I’m doing. I could be getting ready to sock you in the face.”

“Bring it on then, pretty boy. We both know we like it when it’s rough.” Emiliano doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me, just stands there, letting me crowd him like a challenge. The scent of his cologne hits me, a little sweet and a little spicy, and it makes all the warning bells in my head go off.

“Tell me,” he says again, voice low. “Why did you run from me?”

I try to think of a way to turn it into a joke, but it dies on my tongue.

I try to get angry, but it fizzles out when his brown eyes look into mine. The truth is sitting right there, sharp and ugly and impossible to swallow.

“Because a kiss means something,” I admit, voice barely there.

“Yeah.” Emiliano’s eyes soften. “That’s usually the case.”

“And I can’t…” I swallow hard. “I can’t do something that means something.”

His brows draw together. “Why?”