What I Thought Was True(64)

“Do you have any idea what you’re saying? ’Cause I have none.

You’ve thought about what?”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Cass said, kicking away a piece of ice with his foot. “What do you want me to say? You. I’ve thought about you.”

Me? Or sex with me? Or both? “Why don’t we just go back to the party? Since I don’t do dates.”

He huffed out a breath of exasperation, white in the dark air.

“Because whatever you want to believe—or hear—I really like you. You. Come on, Gwen. Let’s just keep walking.” He reached out his hand, palm up, holding it steady, letting me measure the sincerity in his eyes.





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I took his hand. His fingers curled around mine and he tucked both our hands into his parka pocket. We walked for a while in silence. After a few minutes, Cass said, “You’re shaking again. I seem to keep leading you into hypothermia.”

By this point, what with all the high emotion, I had absolutely no idea where we were. When I looked around, I saw to my surprise that we’d walked a full circle around the house, and wound up standing right near my truck. Was it a sign?

Should I leave now?

“Gwen . . . I just want everyone to go away. Except you. I don’t know why I thought all this was a good idea. Safety in numbers or something. Do you think we could just get in your car, get away for a bit before we have to face the keg-heads again?”

It seemed like a simple question.

The house was throbbing with loud people and even louder music. The night air was still, breeze soft and salty from the ocean, peaceful. I couldn’t read Cass’s expression, but I wanted to. I wanted to stay outside with him and talk the way we had in his room. “We could just warm up a little,” I said, nodding my head at the Bronco.

He opened the door for me. The front driver’s one, not the backseat door, waving his hand to gesture me in, in a gentle-manly way. Then he came around to the passenger side, sliding himself in. I flipped the key in the ignition, turned on the heat, swiftly muted Raffi talking about his Bananaphone.

“So . . .” I started, wondering where to go from here, whether I should tell him some private and personal thing about myself in exchange for knowing about his maps. I went





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for: “Does this ability to map things mean you never get lost?”

“I get lost,” he said firmly. “Like now. I can’t tell what you’re thinking. About me.”

But then maybe he could, because his eyes widened and he bent toward me, so slowly I almost didn’t realize he was moving. Or was it me?

Then his lips were on mine. One cold hand rubbed the back of my neck and the other slid slowly down the curve of my side, coming to rest just above the waistband of my jeans. I made a sound, which should have been shock, or protest, not a hum of pleasure.

But that’s what it was, because Cass Somers was the virtuoso of kissing, the master, compelling and accepting in equal measure. Like before, he didn’t rush immediately into deep kissing, just a soft firm pressure, then sliding to kiss my cheek, slipping back, hovering, waiting for me to fall into him.

And I did.

Before I knew it, I was running my hands all over his back, and his fingertips were slipping up my sides to my bra. It had a front clasp and his hands went right there, unerring. Then he moved them aside, muttered, “Sorry,” against the side of my mouth. “I . . . I . . . God, Gwen.”

“Mmf,” I responded logically, slanting his chin to angle his jaw toward me, pulling his lips to mine again.

Don’t talk. If he talked, I’d think, and stop those fingers, which were edging my bra straps down and off, smoothing a slow caress back up my forearms, trailing goose bumps in their wake.

Cass broke the kiss. His eyes were bright sea blue, pupils





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wide and black. I stared at him, stunned, consciousness slowly returning, which he must have seen in my face because he pulled back.

He cleared his throat. “Stop?”

Shaking my head emphatically was wrong. A mistake. Cer-tainly, so was me flipping up the arm rest and moving closer.

Which resulted in Cass pulling me right into his lap.

I took my hands out of his hair (warm at the roots, frost cold at the tips) and reached down. What was I doing? I was doing exactly what Cass was, and my fingers folded on his as he pulled the lever to recline the seat and BOOM I was lying on him and his hands were all over my back, then swirling my hair aside so he could put his open mouth on my neck.

Oh my God. Cass Somers had lightning-fast reflexes and some magic potion coming out of every pore that dissolved self-control, caution, rational thought.

It was all gone and the only thing I could think was that it was the best trade I ever made.

I was the one who practically crawled into his lap. I was the one whose hands slid first up under his shirt to all that smooth skin. After a few more minutes, he was the one who stilled my fingers with his own. “Gwen. Wait.” He shook his head, took deep breaths. “Slow down . . . We’d better . . .”

He sat, tugging me up with him, and said, “Let’s go back to the house. I’m not thinking clearly.”