But I don't do anything like that. She's hurt. I don't want to make it worse. And I definitely don't want to push.
"Jordan," she whispers against my lips, and the breathy sound goes straight to my dick. I want her so damn bad.
I just keep kissing her, silencing her. I don't want to talk.
But she says my name again. She's struggling against me. So I loosen my hold and she pulls away. I open my eyes to find her watching me silently. Her eyes are wide and dark. Her lips are parted and swollen. The sensitive skin close to her mouth is pink, most likely from the stubble on my face.
I scrub a hand along my jaw, making the stubble rasp, fighting the possessive feeling rising within me. I marked her. For everyone to see that she belongs to … someone.
Hell. She belongs to me.
Amanda shakes her head slowly, licking her swollen lips. "We shouldn't have done that."
Her words are like knives carving at my walled-up heart. Those words bring me back to reality, remind me I have a huge task ahead of me. One I need to prepare for because I'm done losing. I'm done listening to what others want from me.
For once in my damn life, I'm going after what I want. Screw everyone else.
Screw my parents. They're the ones who try to control me. I'm over it. Over them.
"You ready to go?" My voice comes out low and gravelly, and I clear my throat, then run a hand through my hair. She watches me do it, her gaze lingering on my head, and I wonder if she wants to touch me there. I love it when she rakes her fingers through my hair.
Does she remember? Does she know that's a weakness? Does she realize she's my weakness? I don't even think she knows the all-consuming power she holds over me.
"Yeah," she says shakily as she reaches up and brushes her lips with her fingertips. Her hand is trembling. The bruise beneath her left eye is starting to darken and I know it's going to look like hell tomorrow.
The guilt that washes over me, knowing I did that to her, can't be stopped. It was an accident, but tell my conscience that.
I climb off the bed and offer my hand to help her stand. She's a little wobbly, but otherwise she's fine. I catch the wince, catch her gently touching her cheek, and I know she's in pain.
I need to make it up to her. I need to make this right.
Starting now, she'll have no doubt whatsoever how I feel about her.
But will she actually believe me?
"Amanda!" My bedroom door is thrown open with a resounding bang and I roll over with a moan, tugging my comforter over my head so Mom can't see me. "Your dad needs your help outside."
Mom is never subtle about waking me up early on Saturday morning. As in, she never lets me sleep in. She used to love that I was in band and would have to be out the door early on Saturdays to go to practice or marching band competitions.
Now, without band, she constantly complains that I'm getting lazy. It doesn't matter that I work the hydration station and that I'm on the yearbook staff. In her eyes, I'm not doing much at all.
Whatever.
"He needs my help with what outside?" I crack open my eyes and stare at the wall. My left eye aches. I'm sure it looks terrible.
I'm also sure I don't want Mom to see it.
"The backyard." Mom's tone tells me I should already know this. "He's digging everything out of the plant beds, and then he's going to add river rock. Remember the plan? We discussed it over dinner a few nights ago."
I vaguely remember the conversation. I haven't been around much lately, not like I used to be. I'm always busy and staying for football practice, especially since we're going into the playoffs, means I miss dinner most of the time.
"Where's Trent? Why can't he help Dad?" I close my eyes, praying for her to leave soon. I'm going to have to show my face-and my nasty black eye-sometime, and I'm hoping before I see my family that I can use foundation and concealer to hide it. Or at the very least make it look less awful.
First, I need to see just how awful it is.
"He spent the night at Zion's house. Once he comes home, Daddy's putting him straight to work too. With all three of you out there, he's hoping he'll be done by midafternoon." Mom raps on my door extra hard, and I wonder if she hurt her knuckles. "I'll make you breakfast," she croons to tempt me. "Your favorite, bacon and waffles."
For once, her promise of bacon isn't going to work. "I'm not really hungry," I tell the wall. "And before I help him, I need to take a shower first."
An exasperated sigh leaves her. "What's the point? You're just going to get dirty anyway."
"I want to, okay? I feel gross." I sound whiny, and she hates it when any of us whine, but at the moment, I don't really care. I'm still half asleep and my eye hurts and I can't get over what happened last night.