“You didn’t answer my question. What did you do for your twenty-first?”
She does another one of those deep-breath things where her whole body moves, and she looks out at the party, her eyes flitting between groups of people talking, drinking, and smoking. “Honestly? I went to dinner with my boyfriend.” Her eyes flick to mine. “My ex now. We had dinner and then went back to his place. That was about it.”
“No big party? No night out on the town with friends?”
She shrugs. “We weren’t really party kind of people.”
“You weren’t? Or he wasn’t?”
“You know,” she laughs. “I don’t actually know.” Her laugh is this pure, perfect thing. Everything about her is light. She makes it seem so easy, like I could just toss off all the bullshit and live in a bright shiny world just because she’s in front of me and that’s the world she lives in.
I want to forget myself in her, and maybe help her do the same with me.
“Well, you’re in luck, Pickle. Because you happen to be with an expert partier.”
I stand and slip one arm beneath her knees and band the other around her middle before lifting her up. She squeaks and wraps her arms around my neck.
“Excuse me,” I call out on my way to the kitchen. “Novice partier in the house!”
“Silas,” she groans. I dig my fingers into her side, and she jerks, squirming and squealing in my arms. “Oh my God, stop!”
“No groaning then. At least not that kind.”
She stills and the pink blush on her cheeks brings out her eyes even more, and who would have thought getting arrested would put me in a better mood?
I keep shouting until my way into the kitchen is clear, and then I sit her right onto the counter. People are staring, and I can see her noticing them all. Intent on distracting her again, I lean against her knees and am surprised when her legs move to let me rest between them.
Not so nervous anymore, are you?
I end up being the distracted one, too caught up in how I like the feel of her knees pressing into my sides. It makes me want to really be between her legs, to be pressed right up against her. Up on the counter, she’s the perfect height so that my head is just a few inches above hers. And if I tugged her to the edge, she’d be at the perfect height there, too. I plant my hands on the countertop beside her and lean in until all I can see are those wide, nervous, excited eyes.
“What’s your poison, Pickle?”
She frowns. “What will it take to get you to stop calling me that?”
“Stop answering my questions with other questions. Tell me how you want to belatedly celebrate your birthday.”
“I really don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
“I just . . . alcohol leads to bad decisions. And I’ve already made enough of those today.”
“So we’ll get high instead.”
Her mouth opens on a surprised inhale, and goddamn her lips are perfect. Curved and full, and I’m thinking of all the other ways I could make her lips part like that.
“I can’t do that,” she says.
“Your friend Matt doesn’t have any problem with it.”
I nod my head over to the kitchen table, where Matt is part of a group sharing a bowl.
She looks afraid, but she asks, “What’s it like?”
I shrug. “It’s different depending on the person and what you’re smoking. Some stuff just makes you relaxed. Clears your head and calms you down. Some makes you happy and kind of light. Everything makes you laugh or seems really entertaining. It’s like taking a break from the world, you know? The outside stuff just kinda melts away, and you forget to care about the things that are bothering you.”
“Is that why you do it?”
I give in to the itch to touch her and start at her bare shoulder, dragging a finger along until I can curve my whole hand around the back of her neck.
“You’re gonna have to stop trying to analyze me. I’m really not that complicated.”
For a girl like her, analyzing is step one. Fixing me would be step two.
She leans her head to the side, and my hand falls away from her neck.
“Tell me about the fight tonight.”
And so it begins. “Why?”
“Tell me about the fight. Let me clean up your hands. And then, I promise to let you teach me how to party. Or whatever.”
I feel like I’ve just stepped into a courtroom, and am being outnegotiated.
“So we’re making deals, are we?”
She smiles. “I suppose we are.”
I reach up again, and this time she doesn’t pull away when I curl my fingers around the back of her neck. I brush my thumb over her pulse point . . . feel that thin, vulnerable skin, and f**k, beneath that bossy exterior, I can see her nerves. But they’re different now. She doesn’t look scared or uncomfortable. Her heart is racing, blood pulsing fast beneath my finger, and she’s taking these tiny sharp breaths. It turns me on in a way I don’t even understand. Normally, the skittish, inexperienced types send me running. But the thought of teaching her anything makes my jeans feel too tight. I want her on her back in my bed, legs spread wide, eyes big and blue, lips parted, mouth babbling that nervous nonsense until I make her forget what she’s saying, forget how to talk altogether.
I want to forget myself in her, too, steal some of her sunshine, and give this pristine, perfect girl a taste of what it’s like to get a little dirty.
“Deal,” I tell her. “But you’ll have to come upstairs. All my first-aid stuff is in the bathroom up there.”
She swallows, and I watch her long, delicate neck move.
Damn. Is there anything about this girl that doesn’t turn me on?
I watch her think about it, and when she finally fixes her eyes on me and says, “Okay,” I get the feeling that she’s come to a bigger decision than just this.
I help her down, and on the way out of the kitchen, she stops to say something to Matt. He gives her a blissed-out smile, and takes another hit.
We exit the kitchen into the front entryway and cross over to the stairs that lead up to a meager second floor that only really consists of my bedroom and a bathroom. I feel a little like the big bad wolf as I follow her up the stairs, but when she reaches the top of the landing, she shoots me a look over her shoulder that makes me pretty certain that I’m not in any hurry to rejoin the party downstairs.