Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(35)

It certainly didn't help that he'd already seen the beautiful body beneath her clothing. Visions of her back at the motel-dropping her towel and offering him sex-suddenly consumed his thoughts.

"Are you going to kiss me again?" Debbie whispered, gazing up at him unabashedly. Eyes shining expectantly, cheeks flushed innocently.

He stared down at her, marveling at the way she could hide nothing, not one single thing she was thinking or feeling, while also feeling a bit dumbfounded by his reaction to her.

"How old are you?" he asked quietly.

"Seventeen," she said quickly, averting her eyes.

He snorted softly. "Lie."

Her eyes found his again, dark brown and full of frustration.

"It isn't," she insisted. "I'll be seventeen soon. My birthday's in a few weeks …  I think." She glanced down at her hands, her fingers ticking a silent countdown.

He stared at her.

Sixteen. Six-fucking-teen. He supposed it could be worse. But still …  sixteen.

Preacher hadn't been with a woman since he'd left New York City and hadn't given them all that much thought. Yet here he was, suddenly giving all sorts of thoughts to a thieving teenager. How fitting, he thought, rolling his eyes. It was just his fucking luck, that the woman to drag him out of his dry spell …  wasn't even a woman yet.

And it wasn't just her age that bothered him. He had only to look at her to know that the last thing this girl needed was his hands on her. She needed a warm bed to sleep in, three square meals a day. Someone to look after her.

Preacher gave his head a small shake and started pouring whiskey down his throat.

Yep. It was definitely going to be a long night.

• • •

It was the headache that woke her.

Head pounding, mouth uncomfortably dry, Debbie cracked one eye open. A pile of embers glowed a brilliant orange several feet away, still hot enough that she could feel the heat warming her arms and legs. There were noises-crackling embers, muffled sounds of movement, the low hum of a radio, someone snoring.

Opening both eyes, she peered into the semidarkness, scanning the bodies lying around the fire pit. There was a weight on her back-comforting confirmation that her backpack was still exactly where it was supposed to be. Beneath her cheek was something firm. She blinked several times, finally registering the outstretched leg in front of her, and then stiffened as she realized she was sleeping on someone. Alarmed, she shot upright, wincing as a spot above her left eye began to throb. Grimacing, she clutched her head. 

It all came back to her in a confused and cluttered rush. The fair. The Ferris wheel. Preacher. The Road Warriors. The Kiss. Angel. But when had she'd fallen asleep? She couldn't remember anything else.

"Here. This'll help."

Scrambling to her knees, Debbie whirled around. Finding Preacher, she blew out a relieved breath and sank down on her heels.

Eyebrows arched, Preacher shook the whiskey bottle in his hand, and the remaining liquid sloshed back and forth. "For the headache. Hair of the dog."

As she took the bottle, Debbie was startled to realize that Preacher hadn't left her alone with the Road Warriors. He'd remained by her side, watching over her while she'd slept.

"Th-thanks," she whispered and sipped. The liquor burned a hot path down her dry throat, waking her further. She took a second swallow, and a third, and eventually the sharp pain in her forehead was no more than a dull ache.

"I can't believe I fell asleep … " Catching sight of movement in the distance, Debbie's words fell away.

A short ways off in the grass, her pale skin glowing white in the moonlight, Angel was straddling Rocky, who was mostly hidden by grass and shadows. Debbie could make out his hands, his tanned skin stark against Angel's light, repeatedly brushing up and down the length of her.

Angel suddenly threw her head back, her long mane of hair like a sheet of black silk swaying across her back. Mouth open, lips parted in a soundless moan, her hips began a frantic, furious pace.

Breathy pants filled Debbie's ears. The soft slap of skin on skin. A low groan. A high-pitched whimper that speared through the quiet night.

And Debbie couldn't seem to look away. She'd never seen anything quite like it. So uninhibited. So beautiful and free. It was nothing like the truck stop hookers and their johns-cold, sometimes callous acts between unfeeling strangers.

It was certainly nothing like she'd ever experienced.

Captivated, barely breathing, she bit down hard on her bottom lip. She wanted to grab her notebook and draw them, capturing forever the intensity, the fervor between them.

"Wheels."

Debbie's gaze flicked to Preacher, breath shuddering from her lungs as their eyes met. Spellbound, she recalled their kiss. A hard, hungry kiss. Hungry like the way Angel was fucking Rocky. Hungry like the way Preacher was looking at her now.