Page 71 of Off Limits: The Firsts

But he does neither. We just stand there as the air around us shifts and changes, reacts and charges. It’s hard to draw in a breath, and yet I know damn well it’s not the air that’s making me feel that way but rather the look in his eye.

Then in the space from one beat to the next, he has me against the wall, his lips on mine, his body pressed against me in the most delicious of ways. Our hands grab and pull and squeeze and feel.

He wages an all-out assault on my senses with his lips alone. There is nothing gentle about the kiss. There is nothing passive. It’s packed full of greed and need and hunger and a violent desire that ignites every nerve inside my body.

I react in kind. My anger at his accusations earlier, my sadness over Ford’s birthday, and the realization of my feelings—they all curl into an explosive ball of harbored energy that gives just as good as it gets.

There are sparks of hunger on his tongue when it brushes against mine. Each connection is like a livewire hitting water—evocative, incendiary, inescapable.

And just when I feel like I can’t catch my breath—when I’m drowning in everything that is Easton Wylder—he tears his mouth from mine, hands fisted in my hair, knee between my thighs, and eyes a burning kaleidoscope of colors.

“Fucking Christ, I’m so mad at you right now.”

And that’s all I get—the growl of his anger—before I taste it on my tongue as he dives back in, catching me off guard and taking what he wants, what I offer him, once again. His stubble scrapes my skin, his fingers tighten in my hair, and his teeth nip my lips, swollen from his.

I fight against him. Not because I don’t want more, but because I need to explain.

“I wasn’t there for Santiago,” I pant as he lets us resurface for air. His eyes narrow, his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, and his fingers twist in my hair so he can pull my head back.

He struggles with words. I can see them form, then fade, and so he speaks with his lips again, but by putting them back on mine.

But it’s not enough. As much as there’s no hesitation in his actions, I can still feel it from him and know he doesn’t believe me whole-heartedly.

As hard as it is to stop him again, I can’t do this without him understanding the truth. “I was there for my brother,” I explain between kisses.

His lips move for a few seconds more, but as soon as the words sink in, his hands still in my hair he leans back to look at me. “You have a brother?”

I swallow loudly and realize there’s hurt in his eyes that I never expected to be there. I don’t understand it. Moreover, I choose not to because if it’s there, then I’m responsible for it being there.

So, I lean in to kiss him again. To try and pretend like I didn’t see it, or the confusion in his features. To absolve myself of being the asshole I suddenly feel like I’ve been.

“No, Scout. No. You don’t get to hide behind your sweet fucking kiss. You don’t get to hide your life from me when I keep giving you more of mine. Jesus fucking Christ.” His growl of frustration echoes around the concrete walls as he paces a few steps away from me, shoves his hands through his hair, the distance between us reinforcing how far away from me he feels right now. “You don’t get it, do you? This. You. Me. This. It goes both ways.”

His words fade and die in the space around us. The look on his face—resigned, uncertain, disappointed—causes the panic to flood full force through me. And the panic this time isn’t because he’s getting too close, but rather because I fucked up. Because I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt and just assumed he’d run.

“What do you want from me?” I’ve never spoken a truer statement and been more afraid of the answer.

“More than I think you can give me.” His voice is even, but it feels like he just shouted at me at the top of his lungs. The rejection is blindingly real and scary and overwhelming to a point that fear speaks for me this time. Shame carries the tune.

“What do you want to know, Easton? That I had a brother who was two years older than me? That he was my best friend, my everything, and three years ago he died? That I had a mother who went to get milk when I was five—left my dad washing the dishes and my brother in the bath and me in my Strawberry Shortcake pajamas waiting for her to come back and read me my bedtime story—and never came back? That we were too much work for her? That we weren’t worth coming back for?” I yell, each word escalating in pitch, my body vibrating from the words I hate to admit but now can’t stop from tumbling out. “Or let me see . . . What other juicy secrets can I tell you that no one else knows? What can I confess to prove to you that I really am trying to let you in instead of push you away?”

“Scout. Please. Stop so—”

“Nope. Just giving you exactly what you want.” The catharsis is real and frightening and feels like a thousand-pound boulder is being lifted from my chest with each word. “Like how my dad is sick. He’s dying, Easton. Is that what you wanted to know? Or how it’s taking everything I have to get this goddamn contract with the Aces that I don’t give a fucking rat’s ass about, but have to get because that was his one request? And once I do, he’s going to leave me, too? Is that what you want to know?” I scream the last words at him, tears sliding down my cheeks, anger burrowed in my heart, and all of me laid on the line. “Is that enough for you? You now know that every single person I’ve ever loved, who I’ve ever let in to know the real me, has left me. How I’m cursed, and petrified that if I let you in, I’m just dooming myself because you’ll leave me, too?”

My voice is hoarse. My heart bared. My fears exposed.

My shoulders shudder with the sobs I won’t allow to come. My mind reels with my confession as the dust settles, and I realize everything I just said.

Oh. Shit.

Those two words are the only thing running through my head like the tears running down my cheeks as Easton just stares at me, his face a picture of shock, his eyes a sea of compassion.

“Scout.” His voice is broken when he says my name, much like how I feel.

“Don’t. Please don’t,” I beg of him.

I can’t do this right now. I don’t want to hear the sympathy in his voice. I don’t want any pity. But more than anything, I just can’t take the hurt anymore. There’s a reason I’ve locked all this emotion up and not touched it for years. This is the explanation for my hard heart.