Beneath The Skin(142)

He nods, then types some more:



We can go back down if u want





Why did he stop talking? I love the soft sound of his silky, sexy voice … but does he hate it?

An idea hits me. As it’s just the two of us here, I find the confidence that had totally abandoned me in the food court a couple days ago. I have no idea where this confidence comes from, considering that I’m ten seconds from peeing my pants out of fear right now; the basket’s swaying in all four directions, like some child’s arm reaching up to grab candy from an out-of-reach candy jar, bending left, bending forward, then right, then left again. If I can get through this without losing my dinner all over Clayton’s tight, muscle-hugging shirt, I’ll call it a win.

Removing my hand from the railing for the first time, I lift a shaky, sweat-ridden fist and knock on an imaginary door in front of me, as if my fist were a nodding head—the sign for “yes”.

He frowns as if my sign hit him in the face. Then he shakes his head, his lips pursed and annoyed.

Shit. Figuring I’d done it wrong, I bring a fist to my chest and draw a circle, repeating the sign for “sorry” that I’d done before. What was that other one?—the sign for “please”? It’s similar to “sorry”, oddly enough. My hands hover in the air as I try to remember it.

Then Clayton grabs my hands, stopping me.

My eyes flash.

Neither of us move. I stare at him, stunned, and he stares back, though I can’t get a read on his eyes. He’s almost angry. His brow is wrinkled, pained, as if I just wounded him. He seems to be gnawing on his teeth, his jaw drawn tight, his cheeks dimpled with tension.

The air between us is so still, I wonder if either of us are breathing.

Then, his grip relaxes, but he doesn’t yet let go. With a face as hardened as stone, he says, “Don’t.”

I was just trying to talk to him in his, uh … native language. How is that wrong? “Am I that bad at it?”

The corner of his lips bend into a scowl.

“That’s a yes?” I press on, my hands still caught in his powerful yet strangely gentle grip. “Horrible? I’m just horrible and awful at sign language? Is that it?”

His eyes run all over my face, as if searching for something. Did he get lost in my words? Did I speak too quickly?

I keep going. “Am I really that bad with my hands? Do I look dumb?”

Still, the beast before me stares wordlessly.

“Should I start typing on my phone?” I ramble on, unable to will myself to shut the hell up. “Would you prefer that over reading my lips?”

Then he jerks on my hands, pulling me in, and our lips collide.

My eyes cram shut as he takes over, his warm mouth consuming mine. Clayton’s hot, jagged breath dresses my face, his powerful hands still clasped over mine and keeping me in place, trapped in his kiss.

Holy fucking shit.

Then it’s over, just like that. He pulls away and lets go of me in one fluid motion, jabbing the button to bring the basket slowly back down to Earth.

And I’m just staring at him with what might be the biggest what-the-hell-just-happened expression on my face. I don’t even notice us swaying, nor feel a trace of the fear of heights I just had. All of my attention is one hundred percent Clayton Watts and those lips.

Seriously, though … what just happened?

The basket shudders when it hits the stage abruptly, and Clayton swings open the cage, escaping Bertha as fast as if his pants caught fire.

“Clayton?” I call after him pointlessly. He’s off the stage in seconds, headed down the aisle into darkness. The auditorium doors open, flashing his beautiful silhouette at me for a moment before they shut gently behind him, closing me in with the cold silence and the warm sensation of his lips still on mine.





CLAYTON



I can’t do this again.

Fuck, she tasted so good I already want another taste.

No, this can’t happen. I’m not losing my head over a girl, not right now.

But her eyes … Standing that close to her, I could have poured myself into them and made a home.

What the fuck am I talking about?

She’s a sophisticated city girl from New York. I’m the dirty scum of a poor Texas nobody. She can do so much better than me.

Why did I kiss her?? Why would I fucking do that to myself?—or to her? I’m sending the wrong message. A kiss means “come here” when I should be teaching her the signs for “get the fuck away from me”.

And she learned signs. She learned them so she could talk to me with her hands.

I can picture her now, looking them up online and mimicking the hand motions in front of the screen. She did that for you, Clayton. I’m so fucked.