Teeth graze flesh.
"But let me just—" he starts, then draws back just an inch to be able to look me in the eye. "Let me make it clear… This isn’t why I asked you out."
He’s all flustered, and I find it endearing.
"I didn’t say you did."
"I just wanted to spend some time with you. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes."
"I don’t know what’s happening here. Am I giving you the wrong signals?"
He shakes his head. "No. They’re all the right signals… I think."
"Okay then." I rake my hand through his hair. It’s like black silk between my fingers, and I want to get lost in it. In him.
He takes it from there, claiming my mouth again, then trails his tongue down my collarbone.
Oh god, I’m on fire. My toes curl inside my boots. Clothes suddenly feel so irrelevant.
"You want this?" he whispers into my shoulder, gently pulling my tee down to access my skin.
"Want what?"
"Well, the man in front of you, of course."
"Maybe."
He pauses and glances at me, all dark lashes and swollen lips. "Maybe?" One eyebrow rises.
"Does that hurt your ego?"
"Yes. Very much." He says it with such a serious look on his face that I almost believe him, but the spark in his gaze at the last moment gives away his bullshitting.
"You’re messing with me, aren’t you?" I tighten my fingers into a fist and shove it playfully against his chest.
"Ouch, woman." He presses his palm to the spot my knuckles just touched and rolls his eyes dramatically.
I can’t with him. He’s too cute. I had no idea making out could be this fun. With Jett, it’s always intense, as if he’s preparing to run a marathon. Like his dick is grave business. But, in the end, asshole never gets me to the finish line. With Cruz, I don’t want to cross the finish line, though. I want to be here, twisted up in the front seat of a foreign car, and giggle at random stuff he says, kissing him in between.
"Is that painful?" I ask, gesturing at Cruz’s chest.
"Very."
"Want me to make it go away?"
"Please," he drawls.
I lean forward and put my mouth on the spot. He’s still wearing his T-shirt, so I take charge and start removing his jacket, then lift his arms to remove the tee. The car is too small. Not enough room to really stretch out anywhere. But we make do.
"Why am I the only one getting naked?" he husks out.
"Stop complaining," I say. "I’ve only just started." He has an impressive body, toned and muscled and with plenty of ink, and I take a moment to trace my finger over some of the tattoos on his arms and chest.
His eyes search mine as if he's trying to decipher the meaning behind my words, and it feels like he’s looking right into me, right into the depth of my tattered, lost soul. I wonder if he sees all the nasty shit there, all the anger outbursts of my father, all the broken bones of my mother, all the desolation of my teenage years. I wonder if he cares or thinks girls like me are trash, damaged goods. I wonder, but I don’t voice my fear. Don’t ask it.
"Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?" Cruz suddenly says, returning his palm to my cheek. His thumb grazes my chin, touching my bottom lip.
"No."
