Deleted scene #4
I laugh without humor and make a loose little circle with one finger, taking in the hair, the face, the shoulders, and the whole inconveniently attractive man standing in front of me. “About your entire tragic vibe.”
“Funny,” he says, setting his untouched beer on the railing. “You look like you reject men before they can disappoint you.”
The words hit so hard I almost step back, but I will die before I would ever give him that.
Some part of me must change, because Easton’s expression shifts. Not with victory or satisfaction. Oh, no, this mother fucker looks at me with awareness, like he knows he hit a nerve and is deciding whether to press on it or back away.
Backing away would be smart and he doesn’t strike me as stupid so him staying is all I need to know he’s dangerous.
“You don’t know me,” I say.
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”
“Then stop talking to me like you do.”
“I’m talking to you because I want to know you.”
Holy shit, he is good.
No—fuck. Not good. Worse than good.
There is nothing polished about the way he says it. No practiced delivery or smile attached to soften the impact. He just says he wants to know me like that is a normal thing to offer a woman in a red sequin dress outside a hockey party on the last Saturday before classes start.
I have had men want me in every easy, predictable way.
They want my body, my mouth, my attention.
They want the silence that lets them feel powerful, and the performance that lets them believe they earned me.
Easton wanting to know me feels different…
too different. It bothers me somewhere it has no business bothering me, invasive and unfair, like he has found a lock I never meant to show him and is patient enough to wait for the key.
“Bad idea,” I say.
“Probably.”
“You agree too easily.”
“Only when lying would waste time.”
I hate the warmth that moves through me. Hate it so much I turn back toward the yard because looking at him feels like feeding a stray cat I have no intention of keeping.
“Do you do this often?” I ask.
“Stand on porches?”
“Make women feel like you’re seeing them.”
He is quiet for a beat. “No.”
I glance at him despite myself and find his gaze is already on me.
“Good,” I say, because I need control back but also there is no need denying it at this point. “I would hate to find out this is a routine.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
My eyes narrow as if I expect him to know just how much I would hate being made a fool of. “I’m sure about everything.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s lonely.”
His words are like a hand around my throat.
For a second, I am not on the porch anymore.
I am back in my Senior year, standing under buzzing fluorescent lights with my books pressed to my chest while girls whisper that I’m a whore and boys leer and make lewd comments about how great I gave Darian head.
I am back there—finding out in whispers and hate what everyone saw before I knew it existed.
That my three-year boyfriend had not only cheated but had made sure I felt ridiculous for believing I was the kind of girl he loved.
I am back in that moment where I learned humiliation has a sound, and it’s laughter at you and about you, the kind that never fully leaves because there will never be a day you don’t hear it somewhere in your mind.
It’s forever the moment I realized I thought I was trusting the right boy, only to learn trust had never been in the room with us that night.
I am back to the moment I learned that being wanted doesn’t mean shit when you trust that feeling.
I blink once, force the hallway, the whispers, and the sick little twist of humiliation out of my head, then smile at Easton with every sharp edge I own. “Careful, Easton.”
His name comes out deliberate this time, polished into something closer to a warning than a slip, but his eyes darken anyway.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep stepping at me and you weren’t invited.”
“I’m still on my side of the porch.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The quiet confidence in his voice does something reckless to me. He knows I’m not talking about space and that he is too close without even touching me. He knows I feel it and that I loathe feeling that.
For once, a man understands the line and does not pretend it is confusing.
That should calm me, but the effect is opposite. It makes me want to shove him against the railing and find out if he is this controlled when my mouth is on his.
It’s a bad idea, probably a terrible one, but terrible ideas are my fave when I keep them in the right category. Dark room, clothes mostly on, no names, no softness trying to pretend it’s more than it is. It’s so easy and I can do easy.
He is standing close enough to be exactly that as long as he doesn’t let it turn into anything else. I take one step closer and Easton’s gaze drops to my mouth, then comes back up slowly, like a man making himself wait.
That might be the hottest thing I have ever seen.
“You should go back inside,” I say.
“Should I?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaning into something that I’m game for, but it might be a mistake to you.”
His mouth finally curves, small and dangerous. “I’m a big boy, Aura.”
I hate that smile because I want to bite it. “You think you’re funny.”
“No. I think you’re trying to decide whether you want me enough to break one of your rules.”
My blood goes very still. “What rules?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That yet slides under my skin.
He looks at me like he means it. Like he’s not guessing because he wants to win, but that he’s already realized there are rules, and that matters more than whatever they are.
Most men don’t care if I have boundaries as long as I package them in a promise.
Easton looks at me like the boundaries are all the permission he needs.
He is decent in a way that does not make him soft. Decent in a way that makes him more dangerous, because cruelty is easy to dismiss where caring is complicated and makes you explain why you’re flinching.
And he doesn’t make me flinch.
I set the water bottle on the railing. “Do you always talk this much before kissing someone?”
His entire body goes still, but it doesn’t feel like shock or hesitation.
It feels like attention, focused and deliberate enough to make the space between us burn with tension.
A lesser man would smirk. An even worse man would move too fast. Easton does neither.
He turns toward me fully, the porch light catching his pale blond hair and the hard line of his jaw, and he looks at me like the answer matters more than the invitation. “No,” he says.
“Good.”
“Aura.”
My name in his mouth stops me cold, spoken low and careful, like he knows it’s a door he shouldn’t open unless I hand him the key.
I should correct him and tell him no names allowed. I should laugh, make it ugly, turn the moment into something less intense before the need starts thinking it’s important.
Instead, I look up at him and say, “Don’t make it weird.”
His eyes search mine. “I’m making sure.”
That should calm me. It should make this easier, safer, cleaner, because men who make sure are men who understand lines exist. Standing this close to Easton with his attention locked on me like I’m the only girl in this loud house and it does something reckless to my pulse.
I don’t want him careful. Not now. Careful feels too close to tender, and tender is where things start getting messy.
So, I step into him because I can’t stand one more second of being seen without doing something to blind him.
His hands lift, then stop near my waist, waiting because he’s decent enough to make sure I’m the one choosing this.
The hesitation should frustrate me, but it hits harder than if he had grabbed first. That tiny piece of restraint snaps through me, hot and clean, because he understands exactly where the line is and doesn’t cross it until I move it for him.
I fist one hand in the front of his shirt and pull him down.
For half a breath, I’m in control. My mouth is the demand, my hand is the guide, my body is deciding how close he gets. I kiss him like it’s strategic, like this is nothing but heat and impulse and a man too pretty for his own good finally being useful.
I get exactly three seconds to believe that lie—before Easton makes a low sound against my mouth and tears kiss away from me.
His hand closes at the back of my neck, firm enough to make my breath catch, and he angles my face the way he wants it. The shift is instant. One second, I’m pulling him down; the next, he kisses me like he was waiting for me to show him I wasn’t teasing.
His other arm slides around my waist and brings me against him, certain in a way that empties my head of every sarcastic thing I planned to say if this got too real.
Easton kisses like he needs my mouth more than he needs his next breath, his hand firm at the back of my neck, his body crowding mine until the only thing left between us is the last pathetic inch of restraint he’s done pretending I have.
His mouth is hot and demanding, his fingers steady at my neck, his body a solid wall in front of mine while the porch disappears around us. He doesn’t paw at me. He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t treat the kiss like a question after he took the answer from me. He took what I gave him, and said bet.
And every inch of me likes how quickly he understood the assignment.
I make a sound I have no control of making, and his hand flexes once at my neck and that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Because I don’t feel cornered. I feel held exactly where I put myself, by a man who knows the difference between taking control and taking too much.