Page 29 of Misguided
“Nope.” He leans back on the heels of his hands and kicks his legs out. “Think I’ll hang here for a while.”
I tuck my chin down to try and hide my smile. It’s nice that he wants to hang out like old times, but that devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear, reminding me he’s probably been obligated with the job of watching me.
“I don’t need babysitting if that’s what King has you doing.”
He turns his head and just stares, his hooded eyes licking flames inside my chest.
“What?” I resist the urge to tuck myself under the protection of his sweater again.
“Just thinkin’.”
“About?”
“How if King had put me up to it, he probably wouldn’t want me to do this.” He leans toward me, bringing his far hand around to run a finger under my chin.
I stiffen, enjoying the wave of anticipation the gentle touch brings, but also nervous of where this would lead. I don’t want to be one of his playthings, tossed aside and discarded when something newer comes along. I shut that down before it had a chance to happen once before—I can do it again.
I’m worth more than being taken advantage of in my weakest hours.
Dog closes the space between us, his breath hot as it skims my face. I brace for his advance, ready to push him off and tell him I’m not interested when he tries to kiss me—yet he doesn’t.
He veers left and ghosts his lips across my ear as he whispers, “You look fuckable wearin’ my clothes.”
He leans back on his hands again, watching me with a sly grin as I implode. My eyes are wide, my brain short-circuiting as I try to come up with an appropriate response to that.
I’ve got nothing.
Nothing.
Dog chuckles, leaning forward to retrieve his beer. I sit in stunned silence as he downs the rest of the bottle, inspecting its label once finished.
“Think I might go get another. You thirsty?”
I utter a simple, “No,” as he pushes to his feet beside me. My ear still carries a tingle where his lips brushed the flesh.
“Be back soon.” He reaches down and runs his fingers under the length of my ponytail, flicking it playfully. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“Sure.” I don’t know if my legs would work all that great right now anyway.
He strides off across the yard again, his silhouette nothing short of a masterpiece: all wide shoulders, tapered waist, and muscular legs. He was lankier when I last saw him, only just beginning to fill out the shape he is now. It was easier to ignore the way his words made me feel back then when his image didn’t drive me crazy on its own.
I’m not shallow—far from it. I know looks aren’t everything. But damn, you’d have to be half-dead to not be affected by a guy like Dog. He belongs on the pages of a magazine, plastered across a billboard in Times Square, not here in the messy backyard of a motorcycle club.
I drop my gaze to the simple navy sweatshirt shrouding my figure and frown. Sure, I scrounged a bit of makeup from Sonya, flicking mascara along the length of my lashes and trying out one of her dark pink lipsticks, but my hair is thrown in a messy pony, the cargo shorts I borrowed not doing a damn thing to make my legs look alluring in the slightest.
He had to be teasing. Right? Fuckable? Hardly.
I glance up at the empty yard in front of me, vacant except for a few distant outlines of people on the deck having a smoke while deep in conversation. A side of me knows it’s ridiculous, but the rest of my scrambled brain has my hands shuffling the legs of the shorts around so that they sit a little higher, a little less baggy over my thighs. I adjust the hoodie so it shows my collarbones a little, plumping the hood behind my head to accentuate the length of my neck and rearrange how I sit at least a dozen times to find the way that’s most flattering to my figure.
A snide chuckle escapes my lips as he drops off the side of the deck once more and makes his way over. A moment ago I was ready to push him off and tell him I’m worth more than a cheap opportunity, and yet after one whispered suggestion I’ve played right into his game—I’m putty in his hands.
Have a scrap of decency, Mel.
My resolve to get my shit together vanishes the second he stops at my feet and lets out a satisfied grumble from deep in his chest.
“Yep,” he states, tilting his head as though to agree with himself. “Fuckable.”
“You’re crude,” I tease with a laugh.