Missing Dixie (Neon Dreams #3)(12)

Smooth fingers graze the area just below my still-healing wound.

“It’s bruised pretty good and a little inflamed. I’ll check for a first aid kit with antiseptic wipes but you should probably get it checked out. Mind if I ask what happened?”

Come to me, words.

I fumble over my tongue for a second and take a deep breath.

“I ran into something in Jag’s—um, the McKinleys’ auto body shop. Sometimes I help out over there. Answering phones and stuff.”

Jesus. I sound like a nervous teenager. Which I no longer am.

Again, I can’t help but weigh the pros and cons of our band reuniting. If I had a Magic 8 Ball right now like the one I had as a kid, I already know what its answer would be if I asked it whether or not I could keep my shit together.

Outlook not so good.

I square my shoulders and watch Gavin search the cabinets until he produces a small white, plastic container.

He tears open a small square packet containing what looks like a wet wipe. “This will help a little. But, seriously, no telling what you ran into in that chop shop. Promise me you’ll go to the doctor.”

“Chop shop?”

Gavin doesn’t respond to my inquiry and I don’t press it because the wet wipe on my hip both tickles and stings, igniting a tingling sensation that extends far deeper into the flesh. When he’s done, he blows gently on my skin and my knees threaten to given out. I grip the marble counter behind me for support.

“You good?”

“Just fine,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

He rubs some cream on my wound and blows some more before standing and that’s it. I can’t take it anymore. His mouth is so close, he’s so close. He seems taller or something, and even though I know the likelihood of that is ridiculous, I don’t remember ever feeling so very aware of his presence. Or maybe I just blocked it all out. But here, now, in the room with him, everything is coming back.

All of it.

Every single second we spent connected on a physical level. His mouth on me, his lips, his tongue, his body inside of mine.

“You’re good at this,” I say, barely able to get my voice to go above a whisper.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

I don’t know if he means with first aid, which is likely since he’s had to perform CPR on his mom more times than I can count, or seduction, which I also happen to know he’s well versed in. Either way, I am in danger of losing my grip on my ability to remain upright.

It’s as if my brain has been doing me a favor for the past few months, allowing me to focus on being pissed at him instead of . . . this. But clearly my brain has left the building and I am completely on my own. This is dangerous.

I am weak.

I want him.

I need him.

Screw it.

“There,” he says gently, lowering my dress back down over my thighs. “That might help a little but you should still—”

My mouth captures his midsentence. His lips are slightly moist and even fuller than I remembered. I tense and a dull ache hits hard as my heart drops a few inches in preparation of being rejected.

Much to my surprise, Gavin doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t reject me. He doesn’t spew some bull about my brother or our friendship or seeing anyone else or anything.

He only makes one sound—a soft, pained groan. His hands grip the skin just beneath my ass and he lifts me onto the counter. The dress is tight but I manage to part my thighs far enough to accommodate his broad figure between them.

My fingers press into his back, urging him closer even though it’s not exactly possible. I try to catch his tongue but he’s sweeping it deeply inside, then pulling back to suck on my lips. A muffled moan escapes my mouth and slides into his.

“You taste like whiskey, Bluebird.” He chuckles lightly, then cuts off any chance I had of verbalizing a response by slipping his fingers between my legs and into the waistband of my panties.

“I’ve come a long way since strawberry ice cream.”

A wounded sound like an animal might make tears from his chest and I feel his erection press into the tiny scrap of fabric between my thighs. “If I don’t stop right now I won’t be able to.”

“Please don’t stop.” I don’t even recognize my own voice—it’s raspy and deep and filled with desperate need. Desperate wasn’t quite what I was going for, but there it is.

Apparently desperate works for Gavin, though, because my plea fuels his enthusiasm and my panties are a mere memory in a matter of seconds.

His fingers explore my newly exposed skin before sinking into my pulsing wet heat.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he bites out when I thrust myself harder against his hand. “So f*cking wet.”

“Seems you have that effect on me.” I want him so badly and wanting this much can’t be a good thing. He’ll break me, burn me to ash. Again.

His mouth against mine blanks my memory. I want to forget the many reasons why this isn’t a good idea—because it doesn’t matter how much it will hurt in the end. All that matters is now.

I’m drunk, but not from the Jack Daniel’s in Jag’s flask. I’m lust drunk on the cocktail of emotions Gavin Garrison always sends swirling around inside me.

I can feel the smile on his lips when they meet mine again. But then he groans and pulls back, and I want to scream.