by Ginger Scott
“I heard you won two grand from tonight,” I say, my voice low so I don’t wake anyone.
Dustin’s shoulders lift and he glances at me over his left shoulder, his lips ticked up with pride. “I did, yeah.”
Our eyes flirt, and eventually I have to blink away. My gaze falls to my feet, but I can tell he’s still looking at me. I feel it.
“Han . . . I’m real sorry. Tonight, what I did to you—that was too dangerous.” There’s an ache in his hushed tone, and I hate that he feels guilt over the best night of my life.
“No, it wasn’t.” I lift my head to find his eyes waiting, as I knew they would be.
His head briefly falls to the side then he shakes it.
“It was stupid. Careless,” he continues as he backs up to sit on the edge of my bed. The space around him feels so childish—my wall covered in band posters and dumb drawings of hearts and flowers I made with Bailey. The giant pink teddy bear my mom bought me for Easter is propped in the corner of my bed, and my comforter is woven with pink and gold glitter thread. It’s hard to make someone see you as a woman when everything about your space screams baby sister.
“I wasn’t scared,” I croak out.
Dustin laughs out quietly before looking up at me from under his golden lashes. The faint smile tugs on one side of his mouth more than the other, that same sloppy grin he wore when we were kids and Mom gave us ice cream. I think I’ve loved him my entire life, but it took seeing that face—the mix of innocence and sheer elation that colors his features when he’s happy—to make me realize how long my heart has been tied to his.
“I mean it. I wasn’t scared,” I insist, ungluing my feet from the hole they’ve dug in my carpet. I step toward him, noting the way his hands move to his knees and his shoulders roll as he straightens his spine.
“No?” he whispers, lifting his chin as I come closer.
“Uh uh,” I say, shaking my head.
My heart is racing, the beats so fierce I’m sure my skin is pulsing. I can’t breathe, yet the air is coming in and out so fast. Hours ago, I flew through the desert at a hundred and sixty miles per hour yet the five feet I just slowly crossed were far more terrifying.
I reach toward Dustin’s right hand just as he lifts it from his knee and our fingers twine, our touch soft and timid. So many times he’s held my hand through things—through haunted houses and rushing across highways. This touch, though, it’s different.
Palm to palm, our fingers fold together as we stare at the way we fit. His bronzed skin marred by grease, my pale pink fingers ringed with twists of gold. Lady and the Tramp. I step in closer, raising my left hand to his cheek and skimming along the roughness of his whiskers. He leans into my touch as my fingertips dive into his hair. The curls wrap around me, soft and cool.
As Dustin’s eyes close, his free hand moves from his other knee to the belt loop on my shorts. Hooking two of his fingers through the denim, he tugs me close. I straddle his legs instinctually, and when I feel the slight pull at my waist followed by the gentle tickle of his fingernails along my bare midriff, I take his lead and lower myself until I’m sitting on his lap, my knees bent on my bed.
Our hands untether and as mine roam along his neck, his drift up my body to my shoulders, then eventually push into my hair, twining the strands around his knuckles with a forceful grip that echoes the feeling in my chest—the feeling of wanting something so badly yet holding it out of reach because you know you shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.
His eyes bore into the divot at the base of my throat. I let my head fall forward until it rests against his, my view of his lashes, the sharp angles of his cheeks, and the line formed by his jawline—a line that wasn’t there a year ago. Everything about Dustin is grown up and ready for the world. I’m convinced he’s going to leave a massive mark on this life—on anything he touches. On me.
“Hannah.” He breathes out my name.
I close my eyes at the feel of his chin lifting, our heads rolling against each other. His nose drags against my cheek as his mouth lifts to meet mine, and I let a tiny gasp slip through my lips as I pant and wait.
“We shouldn’t,” he says. His breath dances against my cheek, crawling around my neck and filling the slight space between us with his own intoxicating drug.
“I know,” I agree, both of us doing little to stop.
He takes a careful nip at my upper lip, and a small whimper slips from my mouth in response. The sound drives him in for more, this time his lips clamping around mine, sucking in with a gentle pressure that completely melts me into his body. The more I sink into him, the stronger his grip is in my hair until one hand trails down my spine, lower and lower still until it sinks into the back pocket of my shorts and pulls me into him.
There’s nothing subtle about his lips on mine now, and I hold nothing back either. We’re holding each other as close as we can without literally becoming one. His tongue works inside my mouth, tasting me and filling my mouth with his sweet spearmint aftertaste. All of this—his scent, his body, his mouth, his skin—is as I’ve imagined when I lie awake at night and fantasize about a world where I’m not his best friend’s little sister. And right this moment, that’s the last thing I am to him.
His fingers curl in my pocket, nails scratching against the denim as he grips my ass and holds me tight against his hard body. Hard everywhere. I find myself wanting to nudge him farther back into my bed so I can press into him even more. I roll my hips against him to release the pressure, but the only thing it does is make me crave more. I do it again, and Dustin tugs my hair gently to tip my chin up and release our kiss. His teeth grit as hooded eyes meet mine. He’s lost to this as much as I am. We passed the option to turn back long ago. The only choice now is to wring every last pleasure out of this forbidden indiscretion.
Dustin bites at my chin, his lips softening the cut of his teeth with a kiss that he trails along my neck. His tongue finds the tip of my ear and he tastes me there too, sucking in then gently biting. I tilt my head back to expose my neck, urging him to enjoy more of me, and he does, kissing down my neck and along the collar of my shirt. His hands have crawled to the small of my back and are slowly gliding up my bare skin, finding shoulder blades and a spine free of bra straps. I took it off when I got home. I did that on purpose, because I hoped.
Dustin notices.
His hands flirt along my sides, his thumbs edging closer to my front until they finally meet the curves of my breasts. I arch out of need and peel away from our kiss, wishing . . . hoping.
The familiar double beep of a car alarm outside my window forces us to freeze. I clamp my lips shut and drop my forehead to Dustin’s shoulder as we hold our breath and listen. The heavy clunk of my dad’s truck door comes next, followed by the click of the front door shutting, the deadbolt locking into place.
Footsteps pound against the wood stairs, my dad’s inability to be quiet the only thing that saved us from perhaps getting carried away.
Saved. Spoiled.
My parents’ bedroom door creaks open then shuts and we exhale. Neither of us moves for several seconds, though we both know that whatever this was—what was happening tonight—it’s finished, at least for now.
“I better sleep on Tommy’s floor,” Dustin says, his voice a gravelly whisper.
“He might throw up.” I’m only half joking.
Dustin breathes out a quiet laugh that dances against my skin, firing goose bumps at the back of my neck and down my arms and legs.
“I’d deserve it,” he says.
I nod, my cheek rubbing against his. We peel apart with a reluctant sort of guilt, and our eyes barely meet. My skin warms every tiny second they do. I’m not sure whether I’m embarrassed or still reeling from wanting him so bad.
It’s clear Dustin is still feeling the effects of our massive make-out session. His jeans bulge at his crotch, and I’m deviously satisfied that I made his dick so hard. I wonder if he touches himself thinking about me the way I do about him?
>
I twist to sit on the corner of my bed he just abandoned, the blankets still warm from his body. I smile at the sight of his twisted up hair, knotted in the back from my hands. His frame takes so much space, his chest wide, shoulders broad, and back muscular. I’ve admired his body so many times, so many ways, but now having felt it . . .
He pauses at my door, his forehead pressed against the jamb, one palm flat against the wood, the other wrapped around the knob.
He glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes drawn in, almost afraid . . . until he sees the coy smile breaking through on my lips. The moment his gaze dips, a smile of his own takes hold.
“Good night, Hannah Banana.”
I blink slowly, top teeth clamping down on my bottom lip before letting go.
“Good night, Dustin Bridges.”
He reaches to his left and flips the light switch, cloaking my room in darkness. In another breath, he’s gone.
He’s gone. But he’s also everywhere. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake him.
8
I’m in trouble. And not, like, just a little trouble. I can’t fight my way out of this trouble, or run. I’m tangled in it, a mess of my own goddamn making. And I have no idea what to do.
I crept into Tommy’s room like a dog caught in the rain. No, in a mudslide, fur matted, belly hungry, paws raw, and eyes weary. One taste of Hannah and every drop of self-control was zapped from my body. I thought putting a pair of closed doors between us would help me rebuild, but damn if I don’t want to rush into her bedroom and pick things up where we left off.
Sleep is not an option. It hasn’t been for the last four hours. The sun is up now, and Hannah and Tommy’s parents have left to set up for the spring fest at town hall. I probably should have gotten up and gone with them to volunteer, or even better, headed straight for Bailey’s house and insisted on joining her family for Bible study. But man, would that have raised a flag or two. I’ve been to church twice, and both times were with the Judges. Once for the fall fest when we were nine and they gave out free pumpkins, and once my freshman year when Hannah’s mom thought we might like the youth group because she heard a band was playing. That band consisted of six people from our high school, and one of them played the clarinet.
All that aside, it would probably do to repent right about now. Maybe wash my soul out a bit and examine my priorities in life. I can’t be doing this.
I slap my hand on my face and splay my fingers wide, muffling my groan. I rub life back into my skin and then run my hand through my hair a few times before sitting up from the rollout mat on the floor. Tommy hasn’t stopped snoring since I dropped him in his bed hours ago. He smells of tequila. That’s where it all went wrong. You don’t mix beer and tequila if you can help it. But Tommy was sticking it to me. Who’s suffering now?
The slight creak in the hallway catches my attention and I study the space under Tommy’s door while I hold my breath. Hannah’s door is open. I can tell by the way light pours in through her window that faces east and reflects off the floorboards. The shadows of her bare feet tiptoe by, pausing for a few seconds at Tommy’s door. She’s probably listening to see if either of us are awake—if I’m awake.
I don’t move until the shadow of her feet disappears and the water turns on in the bathroom a few feet away. Where she’s undressing. And getting into the shower. And my God, do I want to join her.
Clearing my throat, I rock myself to a stand and roll the mat with my feet before nudging it under Tommy’s bedframe. He still hasn’t moved. Part of me wants him to wake up and accuse me of hitting on his sister so I can get this over with. The other part of me? He’s already gliding stealthily down the hallway in an attempt to get out of here without being noticed.
My efforts fail the second the bathroom door flies open and Hannah steps out wrapped in a towel, steam from the hot shower billowing behind her and cascading around her amazing skin.
She startles and clutches at the place where her towel is knotted above her breasts. I shove my fists in my pockets and will my cock to remain chill.
“Sorry. I was just . . .” I take one hand out and grab at the back of my neck, laughing lightly as I avert my eyes and stare at the floor.
“You want to go with me to help at the spring fest?” she asks.
I glance up and am shocked at her nonchalant expression. Her head leans to the side, and her hip is jutted out enough that her thigh peeks through the edges of the towel.
“Sure,” I croak out, my voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy. She calls me on it with a tight smile and laugh. She steps forward and touches her fingertip on my nose. I literally cross my eyes to stare at it as she taps a few times.
“I’ll be right out,” she says. And so I’m not tempted to follow her or watch that towel fall before the door closes completely, I excuse myself downstairs where I take the world’s fastest, coldest shower.
Hannah is already dressed and buzzing around the kitchen by the time I exit the small bathroom behind their laundry room. Her wet hair is glued to her back, soaking her pale yellow T-shirt, the fabric clinging to her skin and showing off the lines of her shoulder blades, the slope of her back, and the band of lace that crosses the middle. So much for the benefits of a cold shower. I lean forward and rest my palms on the counter while she drinks milk straight from the container.
“You’re such a dude,” I tease. She turns and wipes the milk mustache from her upper lip with the back of her hand before putting the lid back on the container.
“It was always hard keeping up with you and Tommy. It was either fit in and join the ranks or fall behind.” She laughs lightly then turns to put the milk away.
Me and Tommy. Me, Hannah, and Tommy.
Before she turns to face me and disarm me with her ice-blue eyes, I let all the thoughts battling it out in my head come running out my mouth.
“About last night. I was . . . Tommy was . . .” Clearly, I don’t get far. Thankfully, Hannah takes over for me.
“It was a mistake. We were both tired. The race was intense, and you don’t want to hurt our friendship and the friendship you have with my brother.” She pulls her lips into a tight smile that pinches the sides of her mouth as she blinks at me slowly.
“Basically, uh, yeah.” I swallow because her tone doesn’t sound as though she’s on the same page. Hell, I’m not even on the same page with myself.
She holds my stare for a few seconds then laughs before rolling her eyes in the direction of her purse that’s tucked in the corner of the kitchen counter.
“Fine, whatever,” she says, moving straight to the door without glancing my way again.
“Hannah, don’t be like that.” Deep down she has every right to be that way. Because everything she just quoted for me is bullshit. I couldn’t even get it out of my own mouth; she had to spout it for me.
“So, are you still coming with me or not?” She pauses at the door, back still to me, T-shirt still wet from her twists of hair.
“Yeah,” I say, because she’s like a drug. I don’t know if I can make it through withdrawals.
I don’t think I’ve ever been a passenger in Hannah’s car. The fit is strange, and I find myself fumbling with the seat belt and shifting my feet around the floor as she backs out of her driveway. She shifts her eyes to me a few times and laughs under her breath.
“You always have to drive, don’t you?”
I glance up to catch her eyes, and I can tell she’s still ticked. One brow is higher than the other and her mouth is a straight line.
“I might be a bit of a control freak about being behind the wheel, yeah. It’s your dad’s fault.” I pull the chest strap out and hold it with a stiff arm, elbow in my gut. It feels like it’s choking me.
“My dad didn’t make you a control freak. He showed you how to work a manual and time the clutch. Your control issues are of your own making.” She slaps my arm aside and sends the safety belt back to its original snug position across my chest and
neck. Why does it cut in there?
I give her a polite laugh as I twist and inspect the harness buckle along the door frame. It doesn’t adjust. Great.
I cough out a cat-like noise and turn back to face the front as Hannah stops at the intersection. She laughs at me one more time and mumbles something under her breath. I can’t say for sure, but I think she called me a child. Fair enough.
The drive to town hall is quiet, and she doesn’t even make a move to turn her radio on, which for her is extra weird. She’s obsessed with that thing. I think she’s trying to punish me with the silence, and the lack of music makes things that much more uncomfortable. I pat my palms against my knees a few times, playing along with the music in my head. Hannah drives on, unfazed, and definitely unimpressed. She pulls into a parking spot between her dad’s truck and her mom’s van, and she’s barely stopped the car by the time I unlatch the safety belt and crack open the door.
I race out of the tight shared space, reveling in the lingering smell of her shampoo. I take long strides, glad I know my way around this area so I don’t depend on following Hannah for directions. The faster I walk, though, the quicker her stride becomes, and by the time we hit the main park square, we’re in a stupid speed walking race like children competing to tattle. When our feet hit the sidewalk leading to the booth her mom is running for the day, Hannah shoves my side and knocks me into the rock garden that lines the walkway. She begins a full-on sprint.
“Oh, hell no,” I say, finding myself caught up in her all over again. She looks over her shoulder, smile wide and cheeks blushed as her purse swings from her shoulder, bouncing off her hip as she speeds away from me. I’m caught up to her in seconds, first grabbing her purse strap that she manages to spin free of before my other arm wraps around her waist and swings her around in circles.
Her laughter booms and draws the eyes of almost everyone setting up at the festival. Her hands form fists that pound gently at my back as I sling her over my shoulder and continue to run toward her mom. I don’t let her down until we’re in front of a table of craft supplies. Her wet strands of hair encircle my neck and slide free from my skin, leaving the cold trail of their presence behind.