Every Kiss(18)

Wes stands up unsteadily with his fists bunched. “No wonder he got in the car without speaking to me. I think I need to go pay him a visit.”

I grab his sinewy arm and pull, urging him to sit back down. “Yeah, like you can drive anywhere. I can take care of myself, you know. And I did. I don’t need you to be my big, bad protector. I’ve taken self-defense classes for years. I know how to handle myself.”

He sits down and wraps his arms around me, pressing me into the wet warmth of his chest. “Sorry. You’re right.”

“And you’re drunk. Obviously an affectionate drunk, seeing how you couldn’t wait to get away from me when you were still half sober.”

“Not true.”

“Umm . . . I have to disagree with you on that.” I try to fight it, but I relax into him. “But we might as well try to tolerate each other and get along. As long as Makenna and Shane are together, it looks like we’ll be seeing each other on occasion.”

“Tolerate each other? If you can tolerate me after today, you deserve a medal. I swear I’m not normally such a jerk. You, on the other hand, haven’t done anything wrong.”

Well, I’m glad we agree on that. “Like I said, you’ve had a bad day. I don’t know all of the details, but it’s forgivable.”

“And, Callie . . .” His tone is more serious now. “I am sorry about intervening earlier with Jake when I shouldn’t have. I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

I look up at him. The blue glow makes his eyes seem brighter. “Why? You barely know me. Why worry about me?”

“I have no freaking clue,” he says, pushing the wet hair from my face.

With that single touch, the mood shifts, electricity buzzes in the air between us. I try to keep him from noticing, but I labor for every breath and my heart races in my chest. He was simply getting the hair out of my eyes, nothing more. But why does it feel like every nerve in my body has come alive, begging for him to do it again? I don’t even know him.

Okay, so I know I’ve done a lot more with a couple of guys I didn’t really know. One night stands aren’t about knowing the other person. Only the end result of it is what really matters. Sex is the driving force. Literally. So why the hell am I suddenly concerned with how well I know him, when nothing has even happened? An even better question would be why I’m thinking about a one night stand with Wes.

Must be the alcohol. This is why I don’t like drinking. It screws with my head—and hormones—too much.

His eyes bore into mine, and I feel warmth creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. I hate that being around him makes me blush. He finally lets out a long sigh and releases me to stand, reaching out as far as he can to pick up the whiskey bottle he left on the table. He rejoins me, though, and puts the bottle to his lips, taking a deep pull.

“I thought you were cut off,” I joke, a poor attempt at lightening the mood.

He shrugs. “Probably need to be. I can’t think straight.” His eyes meet mine again, telling me that something hidden in that statement was aimed at me.

I take the bottle from his hand, and he starts to protest. But I’m rewarded with a wicked grin when I press the bottle to my lips and take a mouthful of the smooth liquid. The whiskey may have an initial hint of sweetness to it, but the bitter burn coating my throat as it slides down makes my eyes water a little. “Thinking straight is usually overrated.” And I drink again.

“I agree.” He takes the bottle back from me, raising it to his mouth. When his tongue slips out to swirl around the opening—where my lips just were—my breath catches in my throat. And as he finishes it off, I struggle to exhale as the last drops slide from the neck of the bottle to his full lips. “You want more?”

“Yes,” I croak, realizing after I answer that he meant more to drink, not more of watching his mouth.

He steps out of the hot tub and grabs my towel, wrapping it around his waist. “I’ll be right back.” I watch him walk up to the dark house and stop to punch a code into a keypad above the doorknob. The door swings open and the kitchen light floods from the oversized window, allowing me to easily see him inside. He grabs items from the fridge and a couple of cabinets, giving me the opportunity to admire the muscles in his back and arms bunching and flexing with every movement. Then, the house goes dark again, just before he’s pulling the door closed behind him.

“Have you eaten tonight?” He asks, approaching the iron table next to the hot tub.

“Does a bowl of cookie dough count?”

He eyes me with an eyebrow raised. “Definitely not.” He rips a sandwich in half and holds one side out to me. “Eat this.”