“Here’s my question,” Torres says. “What was your friend Matt doing with handcuffs?”
She laughs, this high, tinkling noise that goes straight through me.
“Matt is . . . oh God, how do I explain him? Matt doesn’t have a serious bone in his body. He brought the handcuffs as a joke. I don’t think he even remembered they were in his pocket.”
“See,” Torres continues. “I want a thing like that. A gimmick that’s just mine. Like . . . the weird guy who always has a pair of handcuffs.”
“You have a thing,” Dallas says. “You can’t seem to hold on to your clothing when alcohol is involved.”
“I’ll have you know, I am fully clothed right now.”
“You’re not wearing shoes.” Brookes cuts in, low and matter-of-fact, and the table erupts into laughter.
I look, because I’m a f**king train wreck. Dylan’s head is tossed back, her gold hair fanned out behind her, her long, gorgeous neck on display.
Torres shrugs. “So I got comfortable. What’s the big deal?”
“Do you have any idea where your shoes are?” Dallas asks.
He thinks for a moment, opens his mouth, and then closes it.
The laughter doubles, and Dylan covers her wide smile with her hand, leans forward, and her eyes catch mine. I grab my beer and head out of the kitchen before the rest of the group catches sight of me, too.
I’ve just edged my way out into the living room, when I feel warm fingers graze my arm.
I turn, and she’s there, too damn close for comfort, too damn far for everything else I want.
“I was wrong,” she says. “But you were wrong, too.”
“Is that supposed to be an apology?”
She pauses and smiles. “No, actually. It’s not.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I want to be here.”
“Finally figured out what you want, huh?”
She shrugs. “Maybe I just gave myself permission to want it.”
The music switches to a booming rock song, and she squeezes her eyes shut against the noise.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” she asks.
“About?”
“Everything.”
“Not sure I’m up to talking about everything.”
“Silas, please.”
How is it that I still can’t say no to her?
“Fine. Upstairs. We’ll find someplace quiet.”
It’s déjà vu as I follow her up the stairs, her perfect ass right at eye level, only there’s twice as many stairs here as my place.
“So, tell me again. You’re not apologizing?”
She slows her stride and glances back over her shoulder. “You, me, and sorrys don’t typically lead to fruitful conversations.”
I can’t tell if she’s serious or f**king with me. And I’m too impatient to wait until we’re in a room somewhere to find out. I stop her at the top of the stairs, my hand curled around her elbow.
“I need you to tell me straight, Dylan. You know I don’t like to talk, so what is this?”
She takes my hand off her elbow and holds it in hers.
Just then a door opens on the landing above us, a bathroom I assume, and I see Carter step out, in the middle of zipping up his jeans. He freezes for a second when he sees me, and I scowl. I don’t like everyone knowing my business. And this place is too public for whatever is about to go down. And I’m still pissed about the thing with Carter and the brownies. Every time I see his face, the anger rises back up. Dylan might not be mine anymore, but I sure as hell don’t want him anywhere near her.
Dylan stays silent until Carter squeezes his big frame past us and lumbers down the stairs. Then her hand squeezes mine, and she moves forward so that she’s one step above me, almost eye level for once.
“I could make a big speech,” she says. “I could explain how growing up in foster care, I had an idea of what the perfect life would be like, and I’ve done everything to chase that over the years, not realizing that none of it was real. I wanted a perfect home and a perfect future, and instead everything just felt empty. I could tell you all about how miserable I’ve been without you the last two weeks or how much I hate myself for ever making you feel like you wouldn’t fit in my world. But you’re not really the speech type, so I’ll just keep it simple . . . I don’t think you need fixing. And you have to fit in my world, because you are my world. And I know you’ve never really done the relationship thing, and I know I’ve screwed this all up so badly, and I’m sorry—”
“Shut up.”
“But—”
I kiss her.
I kiss her, and her breath mixes with mine as she gasps into my mouth, and I sink my fingers into her hair. And as always with her, I just want to take and take and take, but this time I want her to do the same.
I want to give her what she gives me. I want her to feel perfect. I want her to have the good life and the good home and everything she could ever want.
She wraps hers arms around my neck, and together we stumble up the last few steps to the second floor, laughing through the missteps because neither of us is willing to stop kissing long enough to climb four measly steps.
When we get on level floor, I grip her h*ps and pick her up. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I lock her in close to my body, and open the door to the bathroom. I slam the thing shut and pin her back against the door. It’s dark inside, and I reach out a hand to search for the light switch because all I can think about is that night in the bathroom at my place, and how badly I need to see her fall apart again. I lower my mouth to her neck, tasting and sucking and Jesus . . . how did I go two weeks without this?
“God, I missed you. So much, baby.”
I finally find the light switch and flip it on.
“Silas.” Her hands tug back on my hair, and I nip her collarbone in response.
But then her hands slide out of my hair, down to my shoulders, and she pushes, pushes me back.
“Oh my God, Silas. Stop.”
I do as she says, even though I feel like my bones will break if I make even the slightest move away from her. I loosen my hold on her hips, and she slides down out of my arms.
A mess of emotions I can’t even identify begins to swarm in my chest, then she darts around me, and it takes a second for me to hear what she’s saying over the roaring in my ears.