Chapter 10
Tristan
“Better?”
Jesse’s voice is low and thick and sexy as fuck as he takes a slow step back, and ohhh I don’t want him to go.
I could follow him. I could take a step after him and bury my hands in that scratchy looking sweater of his and finally find out what he feels like beneath it.
He’d let me. The way he’s been looking at me all night? All those delicious blushes he’s been giving me, and how his hands lingered for a moment too long just now when he’d wrapped me up in his coat? No question about it.
Anyway, isn’t that the goal of tonight? To get my hands on Cute Latte Guy, to taste his soft, full lips, get in his bed (or get him in mine), and then get him the fuck out of my head?
Instead, I shove my hands deep in the coat’s pockets, where the heat of him still clings to the fabric.
“Better.” My smile feels brittle, and my heart does another of those weird, skippy beats it apparently saves for Jesse and Jesse alone.
His coat smells like him. Faintly citrusy-cinnamon cologne and wool and Jesse, and fuck but I want to bury my face in the fabric and live in it.
I shouldn’t have let him put it on me.
Not just ‘cause it’s selfish as all hell to let him freeze his ass off so I can be warm, but because I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not just the comforting weight of his coat or the sexy scent of him that’s warming me.
Like maybe it’s every last thing about this guy, even down to the little half glances he throws me as we walk down the sidewalk, side by side, elbows bumping, that’s part of this weird, cozy-fuzzy feeling that’s taken up residence in my chest. That, no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself to believe that he put his coat on me for any reason except that he didn’t want me to be cold.
And fuck if I know what to do with that.
A little flirting and superficial conversation and a lot of watching the blizzard of snow whiting out the city streets is all it takes to get me through the long walk back to our apartments. Or rather, my apartment.
Maybe he’s hoping for an invite in, or maybe it’s just a thing he feels like he has to do, but of course Jesse walks me to my door like the perfect gentleman.
Not that you’ll hear me complaining.
I’ve managed to shut off the bullshit and talk myself back into my original plan. Otherwise, what was tonight about? I’m supposed to be getting this guy out from under my skin, not further worked in. So far, that’s all I’ve managed to do.
A good fuck, or better yet, a bad one, is exactly what I need to get him and those dangerous warm-fuzzies out of my system.
That’s always worked in the past, with only one disastrous exception, and since that exception hangs heavy over every choice I make and I’m sure as shit not gonna let it happen again, why should tonight be any different?
The snow hasn’t stopped falling, and it’s transformed everything into some sort of magical other world, all white and smooth and sparkling.
Even the sketchy-ass stairs up to the landing, where we’re standing now, me with my back to my door, him doing that cute as hell shuffley-awkward thing he does when he comes into the shop and tries to chat me up, only can’t think of a thing to say.
Well now, isn’t it a good thing for him that I don’t have that problem?
“Thanks for making sure I was warm tonight, sunshine,” I step forward, not close enough for any part of us to touch, just near enough that the tilt of my chin as I peer up at him through my lashes is an invitation. “But I think it’s time to get you warmed up now.”
I can’t hold back a shit eating grin at the punched-out gasp of shuddery breath he lets go as his face flares scarlet. The cold air had already turned his cheeks that color I love, but this is different now, a prickly hot sunset pink blush that spreads over his face and down his neck.
Goddamn, but I want to trace its path under his scarf and down to see how far south it goes.
I want to press up on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck and lick a hot, wet stripe up his throat before diving in to taste those soft, full lips of his.
I want to drag him through the door and rip that sweater off of him and make him forget his own name.
Fuck, but I’d do it in a heartbeat… If that was all I wanted.
It’s time for my brain to shut up now, except it doesn’t seem to have gotten the hint, and then I’m backing away, my hands fumbley-racing to get me out of his coat, drowning in a stream of intrusive thoughts blaring loud through my head—
I want to sit and listen to him talk. Not like I’m an idiot because I dropped out of high school sophomore year and never looked back, but like he did tonight.
I want to find out if his socks really don’t match, like I’ve convinced myself they don’t, and why there’s something sad behind his eyes, even when he laughs.
I want to let him fuck me and use me any way he wants, but then I want him to wrap his warm, thick arms around me and hold me while I sleep until I wake up, still there.
I want—
And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I want him to be everything he seems, and I want to be the sort of guy that deserves that.
Suddenly, I don’t know a goddamn thing except that I have to get away. Get out of the too-tempting reach of him and get into my own head so I can work out what the fuck I’m gonna do.
Because I can’t actually want a single goddamn one of those things.
Fuck no.
“Thanks for letting me wear it,” I blurt as I yank myself free of his coat in record time, thrusting it into the space between us at the same moment as he takes a hopeful little half step toward me.
He probably looks, and, hell, probably feels, confused as fuck.
Only, I can’t bring myself to look up into his face to actually find out before I turn away toward the door to dig in my pocket for my keys, silently cursing when my half numb fingers can’t quite grip the metal the right way to get the lock open.
“And thanks for dinner,” I babble as I jiggle the key into place, “and the walk,” the latch turns under my efforts and I only just keep myself from halfway falling forward as the door pops open, “and—”
Before he has a chance to even answer, and before I have a chance to think through what I’m doing, I’m spinning around, as good as lunging for him as I tip up onto my toes to press a kiss on his cheek.
The unplanned movement almost finishes what the door started, and I have to throw out my hands to catch myself against his chest to keep from toppling into him.
Apparently of their own free will, my fingers close around the edges of his scarf, and dammit but his lips are so near and so damn tempting as I tighten my grip on the soft material for just a second before I lightly shove against him, launching myself into a stumbling step back.
“Just, thanks. Really.”
And then I’m through the door, slamming it shut behind me and flipping closed the lock like I’m afraid he’ll try to burst in after me and make me explain what just happened and why I just freaked the fuck out, apparently totally out of nowhere.
After a few seconds that seem to stretch on forever, I can hear Jesse clomping down the stairs outside. The sigh I let out is nothing besides relief as the heavy footsteps fade.
Definitely not disappointment at all.
What the actual fuck?
I lean against the door, letting my head fall back as I pinch my eyes shut, lifting my hand to press my fingers against my lips that are still humming with the rough touch of stubble and warm skin left behind by his cheek.
It’s probably the most chaste seeming kiss I’ve given anyone since I was fourteen and kissed Tyson Lewis behind the school cafeteria.
The first time, not the second… Which is totally beside the point.
What is not totally beside the point is, considering the seeming chasteness of that kiss, why do I feel like I can feel Jesse’s touch spreading out over every last inch of my body?
And, far more importantly than that, what the hell am I doing?
Because it’s not just that kiss and the totally, ridiculously overblown reaction I’m having to it.
Fuck, but I know better. I know better than to let myself feel anything like this.
The lessons I’d thought I’d learned from watching my mom’s life implode around us may not have ended up sticking, but the lessons I learned in Tucson sure as hell did, and I’m not about to forget them.
Three years might not seem like much, but in those three years, I’ve left behind every last piece of that stupid-ass nineteen-year-old who thought he was tough shit but turned out to be nothing better than a starry-eyed kid, ready to make the same goddamn mistakes I’d always promised myself I’d never make.
Behind my closed eyes, the image of Jesse’s shy, eager face appears, framed by his sun-bright, un-styled hair, and I can’t hold back a frustrated groan, ‘cause no matter how hard I try, I can’t help believing he actually is everything he seems. Sweet, kind, genuine.
And maybe he is. The trouble is, if he really is all that, there’s no way in hell someone like him could ever actually want more than one thing from someone like me.
Is there?
Not that it matters. Because I sure as fuck don’t want anything more than that either. Not really, when it comes down to it. Just ‘cause Jesse makes me feel all warm and cozy and like I could want something more, doesn’t mean I actually do, or ever will.
‘Cause I won’t. Not ever.
No matter how much his sweet kindness and that mussed-up-unknowingly-sexy thing he has going on try and trick me into thinking otherwise.
Obviously, that’s all that happened before, out there on the doorstep.
Right?