Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(56)
I dial Owen three times, each call going right to his voicemail. So I give up, slam the car gear into reverse, and speed away from the shopping center. A few times, I convince myself that I can see Owen’s lights, that it’s his truck I’m following. But it never is, each time the driver turning the wrong way.
When I pull into my driveway, the car skids over the dip in the gutter, grinding metal along pavement, but the noise is just enough to stop Owen as his foot is about to step up his porch.
I push the gear in park, fly from the door and leave the car running in my driveway—my feet skipping carefully over the rocks and dips from the concrete of my driveway to his front yard. Owen doesn’t move, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there, his hands limp at his sides, his hat pushed low over his eyes, hiding how pathetic he feels—how vulnerable he is. I ignore it all, my hand grasping my bracelet, my gift, so tightly that the metal is leaving an indentation in my palm.
“I love it,” I say, walking swiftly up to him, my breathing coming hard. “My bracelet. Owen…thank you. I love it.”
He doesn’t say a word, but he glances down at my open palm, his eyes twitching with the motion of my hands as I struggle with the clasp and work to wrap the chain around one wrist with my opposite hand. I hold my arm against my chest, keeping the end of the bracelet in place and finally hook it closed.
“It’s beautiful, Owen. This…it’s beautiful. Thank you,” I say, my eyes glossing over with the want to cry. I stand before him, waiting for him to say something, say anything. Instead, he’s motionless, and I give up. “I just wanted you to know how much I love it. How thankful I am…I’m sorry, Owen,” I say, my smile fading fast, my eyes falling low as I turn and walk back to my house, to a kitchen full of pasta and sauce, enough to feed a real family. Only I’m coming back alone….
“You’re beautiful. That…it’s just a bracelet. But you…” Owen says, and I stop, my throat catching my emotion at the sound of his voice. It’s deep and raspy, just like that first night in his truck. His hand is on my shoulder, my feet stopped and my body shivering.
With slow movements, his feet glide closer, an inch at a time, while his hand sweeps my hair around my neck. He slides his touch down my shoulder and arm until his hand is completely wrapped around my wrist. Lifting my arm slowly, Owen slides the edge of my sleeve with his finger, exposing the bracelet along my pale skin, the weight of the charms sliding up as he brings my hand closer to my shoulder, closer to him.
I can feel him breathe along my neck, and when the warmth of his mouth tickles my fingers, then my wrist, my eyes roll to a close—the feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. This is the dream I’ve had in my bed every night since I’ve met Owen Harper. Only this isn’t a dream at all. It’s really happening.
Owen loosens his grip on my wrist, letting go completely—then moving his hand to my jaw, pulling my chin up so I look at the dark, cloud-covered sky. When his lips touch the freezing skin along my neck, my knees grow weak, and I nearly slip to the ground.
With a more forceful grip, Owen reaches into my hair and turns me into him quickly, my breath catching when I realize how close I am to him, how much of him I can smell, feel, touch—taste. Both of his hands rise to my cheeks, his thumbs giving each one a gentle stroke while he looks at me.
No boy has ever touched me like this. No boy has ever given me a gift. And I’ve never wanted a boy to kiss me more than I do right now—to kiss me like the way they do in the movies, like a grown woman, like the woman I’m so close to becoming.
Every movement he makes is slow and studied, his eyes watching as his hand works in and out of my hair, then runs along my arm again, feeling the bracelet against my skin. When Owen leans into me, I begin to shut my eyes, my lips quivering, ready to meet his, but his mouth keeps moving, finding my neck and ear first, his tongue taking small strokes along the way. I’ve watched Owen do this, watched him kiss other girls like this. And as much as I also secretly wanted to be in their place, I now know that I don’t want to be them at all.
I want to be more.
“Owen, I’m not Kiera,” I breathe, his touch halting with my words. His hands never leave their spot, cradling my head, but Owen’s mouth leaves my neck, his eyes serious when they come into view, his mouth a tight, straight line. My hands move to grip his elbows, to steady me in my moment of weakness, my legs threatening to betray me and send me to the ground again.
After several long seconds under his scrutiny, under the power of his gaze, he pulls me even closer, shutting his eyes as his mouth comes within a fraction of an inch of mine, his bottom lip grazing my top lip and sending a lighting bolt into the depths of my belly.
His mouth brushes against mine a few more times, each pass leaving me wanting more, forcing my lips to part, my skin to radiate with need, until finally he speaks. “You’re right,” he says, holding my head to his, our mouths ready, waiting. “You’re so much more.”
His mouth covers mine fast, his strong lips working my na?ve and novice ones quickly into submission. His hands crawl around my head and body until he’s pulling me to him so tightly that it becomes hard to breathe, but air—breathing—it’s so unnecessary. I follow his lead, copy his every move, and grip him tightly, my fingers exploring the powerful muscles along his back and sides, feeling all of those physical things I’ve hungered for, until I’m stretching on my toes to reach him just to keep our lips intact.