Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(10)

It’s been so damn long since I’ve done anything but jerk off, I’d begun to wonder if my dick even worked without self-stimulation. Prison didn’t exactly make me horny, and living with my sister has made it almost impossible to get off. I hide my glad smirk in a bite of burger and thank God prison didn’t take that away from me too.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

Shit. Busted. “I was wondering if your tongue is also pierced.”

“And that’s funny?”

“My mind sort of drifted downward from there.” I shake my head. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. It’s none of my business.”

She sets her sandwich down and wipes her mouth on her napkin, taking her time, making me feel like a total and complete *. Her gaze is steady and even on mine as she takes a sip of water and swallows. She pokes her tongue out between her lips and flattens it so I can see that yes, indeed, it is pierced and missing its barbell. My chest goes tight. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Her tongue slips back into her mouth, curling a little at the tip just before it disappears.

“Both nipples and two on my clit,” she says.

Holy. Fuck.

For a second I think she might actually show me, but then she picks up her sandwich again and takes a bite. I don’t recognize the look in her eyes. They’ve gone sort of blank, with a sheer coating of defiance and anger. That look scares the shit out of me. I’m ashamed at how I got her to share something she so clearly didn’t want me to know. My dick throbs in time with the hard, fast beat of my heart. There’s a whooshing in my ears and my dinner threatens to come up.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer out.

“Anything else you want to know?”

“No.”

“Can I ask you something, then?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Do you want to f*ck me?”

Her question is forced and ugly, matching her hard, cold stare. The crudity of her question is a slap in the face. How did this get so out of control? I don’t know what to say. It’s clear she expects me to come up with something. Is this some kind of test?

Do I want to f*ck her? The answer isn’t a simple yes or no. It’s complicated and as f*cked-up as I am.

Do I want to f*ck her? I want to want to f*ck her. But how would that sound if I said it out loud?

Do I want to f*ck her? God, yes. Give me a reason. Give me something. Hell, no. Take away my memories of the only woman I’ve ever been with, the only woman I’ve ever loved.

The answer should be easy. I’m a guy. Guys think about sex. Guys want sex with hot women. A hot woman is offering me sex. But all I can come up with is “Do you want to f*ck me?”

Her head jerks back, eyes widen, lips part. Tossing her bold question back at her shocks her. The air between us fizzles and sparks. All of the hair on my body stands on end and a shiver runs up my spine. She leans toward me, studying me like she’s just seeing me for the first time, like she doesn’t already know too much about me. It was a test, and I somehow passed. Our meals forgotten, we take in the new boundaries of our fledgling relationship or whatever it is that’s happening between us.

I’m as astounded as she is. I slide my hand across the table and take her hand. It’s small in mine. Her fingers are long and slim and cold. She doesn’t pull away or break eye contact, almost as though she willed me to touch her and I finally obeyed.

She breaks the silence. “You’re not what I expected. Not at all.”

“Neither are you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

I nod.

“I’m not really that brave.”

“I know. Me either.”

“I know.” She glances at our clasped hands. “Your hand is warm.”

“Are you cold?”

“Just my fingers.”

I hold my other hand out, palm up, and she places her hand in it. Somehow this basic touch is more intimate in this moment than it would be if we ripped our clothes off and f*cked on top of the table. She squeezes my hands, turning them back and forth, experimenting, studying. I let her. Her expression is the most open I’ve ever seen it. Everything about her transforms, from the set of her shoulders to the curve of her lips to the feel of her hands in mine. She seems almost giddy in her discovery. Questions begin to form about what made her the way she is, but I shove them aside, reminding myself that I don’t need to know.

The only thing that matters is the here and now.

Our waitress drops off the check. “Pay up front.”

Vera asks her for a box to take home what’s left of her child’s meal. Releasing one of her hands, I reach for the check before Vera can grab it. She frowns at me and pulls her other hand away. I frown back at her. She does something under the table I can’t see and then produces a five and lays it on the table. I push it back at her.

Her frown deepens and she shoves the five over with more force. “I pay my own way.”

“I invited you.” I slide it back over.

“Knock it off, Beau.”

“Invite me to dinner and then it’ll be your turn to pay.”

She slaps a hand on the five and it disappears under the table again. “Thank you.” She’s not grateful, she’s pissed.

The waitress returns with Vera’s to-go container and clears away my plate.