Page 52 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

“Oh, God,” I whisper.

Holt swallows hard. He gives weight to his light touch, sinking a finger into the wetness that slicks me.

A breath rushes from between his lips, and I watch his eyes drop to where his hand is inside my pants. “You’re so hot. So wet.”

If a blush could incinerate someone, I would be ash. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes snap up to mine. “I like it, Faye. You’re so hot. You’re perfect.”

I feel emotional. Shaken.

My voice rattles. “Okay.”

His finger slides over a part of me that feels electrifyingly sensitive. My body jolts and Holt’s lips twitch in a barely-there grin. He does it again. Again, I twitch. My belly contracts with entirely new sensation.

“Does it feel good, Faye?”

I nod. I can’t speak when he’s doing that.

I expected he would touch me deeper, further down. But his hand stays just inside, his fingertips stroking and rolling over that little pleasure point that could drive a sane person to a place of beautiful insanity.

I want more, and Holt seems to sense it because his touch grows heavier. There is an urgency in the movement of his fingers as he plays my body in a way that even I can’t play it, and it’s my body.

My breaths are heavy now. He wets his lips, and curses. “I want to kiss you.” I’m about to tell him to kiss me. To beg him to kiss me when he says, “But I don’t want to miss this. You’re so beautiful.”

I’m not sure what he doesn’t want to miss, but I watch his eyes on my face anyway. He takes me in like he’s trying to note every flicker of emotion on my face, every spark of feeling in my eyes. Like he’s trying to capture the snapshot of this memory so that he might store it in the ether of forever.

I hold his eyes as his stroking, teasing, delicious touch builds a pressure in the deep of my belly that I can’t contain. My hands twist into the blanket beneath me and my breaths begin to fall in unsteady tumbles. I think I whimper.

His swirling touch grows faster, a bit rougher. And that building pressure inside me boils over.

My belly contracts and my hands fist the blankets as my body jerks beneath his. I bite my lip as a cry threatens to escape.

Holt grunts, “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Holt,” I moan his name.

“Faye?” Mom’s call breaks into our stolen moment like an elastic band stretched to the point of breaking. It snaps us quickly back into reality, a cool wash of fear splashing over the heat of arousal.

Holt pulls his hand from my pants, and I scurry off the bed to the door. My jeans are still undone as I pull the door quietly open, careful not to let the latch click as it releases so that Mom doesn’t know it was ever closed to begin with.

“Yeah?” I call, my trembling hands working to close my jeans.

A creak tells me she’s coming up the stairs. No. Nonono.

She’s going to know what we were doing.

She’s going to see it painted on my face. “Is Holt staying for dinner? Dad’s ordering pizza and wings.”

I whip my head around to Holt, who is sitting on the edge of my bed. He’s leaning forward, his elbows planted on his knees. He looks cool as a cucumber while I’m freaking the freak out!

He nods, lips quirking. Dad always orders Holt his own wings.

I call, “He’s staying.”

The creaking on the stairs starts to move in the other direction, and I hear Mom talking to Dad on the phone.

My heart is still rioting in my chest as I slump against the wall beside my now open bedroom door.