Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits #1)(61)

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s … ah … cozy.” I’m sure the spiders loved it. Along with those strange bugs that curled into a ball when you touched them.

Noah swept my hair behind my shoulder and placed a delicious kiss on the nape of my neck. “Liar,” he whispered in my ear.

Ugh—moral choice: couch or bed, couch or bed? The decision was taken out of my hands as Noah hooked a finger on my back belt loop and tugged me, backward, toward the bed. His arms snaked around my waist and pulled me down alongside him.

Noah propped himself up on his elbow, his wicked grin in place. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to see you on this bed?”

“Nope.” The hem of my sweater rode up from our fall, exposing my belly button. Noah traced circles onto the skin of my stomach, down to the material of my low-rise jeans. His touch sent a combination of tickles and chills through my body. My heart sped up and I struggled to keep my breathing normal.

Every Noah rumor had been right. His kisses curled my toes and now his simple touch rocked my body. Fear mingled with the pleasure in my bloodstream. “Noah?”

“Yes?” His dark eyes followed his fingers as they teased my belly button.

“When did you start smoking pot?”

He laid his palm flat against my tummy. “You’re going to make me work for this.”

I nodded, afraid I’d squeak instead of answering. Things were moving fast, way too fast for a slow girl like me.

Noah kicked off his shoes and inched up the bed to the pillows. “Come on.” My hand shook when I unzipped my black boots and lined them neatly on the floor next to his tossed-upside-down shoes. Why was I so nervous? This was Noah— study with, talk to, laugh and plot with Noah.

As I crawled up the bed to sit beside him, my pterodactyl butterflies somersaulted in my stomach. Good God, he was gorgeous and I was in bed with him. I leaned my back against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. He lay. I sat. No, this wasn’t awkward.

Noah’s smile faltered. “Don’t do that, Echo.”

I raked a shivering hand through my hair and fought to control my voice. “Do what?”

He clutched my hand and gently rubbed his fingers over it. “Be scared of me.”

Noah sat up a little and I sank low enough to rest my head on his shoulder. I could compromise. “I’m not scared of you.” What you do to my body, maybe, but not you.

“What are you afraid of?”

“You answer my question first.”

He stretched his arm around my shoulder and settled his head against mine, enveloping me in a warm little bubble. “I was a lot like Luke my freshman year—the basketball star, the guy who dated all the right girls and had all the right friends … I tried to remain that person my sophomore year, but no matter how hard I tried, I kept failing. I couldn’t stay on a sports team because I couldn’t afford the equipment or my foster parents would make it impossible for me to make practices or games. Finally, I got tired of working so hard to fail, so I quit. One day a guy asked me if I wanted a hit, so …” He trailed off.

So, Noah smoked pot. I drank beer. We made a beautiful couple. “I’ll never smoke pot or do drugs. I don’t want to do anything that messes with the mind. It’s a delicate thing.”

Because I was terrified to do anything that would flip the switch that would make me like my mother. Studies suggested there was anywhere between a four and twenty-four percent chance I’d inherit her manic little genes. “If you’re going to try to get custody of your brothers, aren’t you scared they’re going to do a drug test at some point? I mean, if I was the judge, I would.”

He had been feathering kisses into my hair, causing goose bumps on the back of my neck, when he abruptly stopped. “I guess you’re right.”

I pulled away and stared into his eyes. “I don’t care that you smoke pot. I mean, I’m not going to join you and I’d prefer to hang out with you when you’re sober, but I’m not looking to change you.”

Noah shifted so that his hair fell into his eyes and kept his face expressionless, not even a smile. He scratched at the stubble on his face. “Why didn’t you go to Hoffman?”

“Because my father thinks art is as evil as the devil himself.” And that if I continued to indulge my talents, I’d turn exactly into my mother.

“That makes no sense.”

No, it didn’t, but what could I do? “My mom was an artist. He associates her talent with her behavior.”

Noah tugged on a curl. “You’re not crazy.”

I tried to force a reassuring smile onto my face, but came up short. “My mom came off her meds because they inhibited her creativity. For every painting my mom accomplished, I could tell you the time frame of her manic episode. Like when I turned nine and instead of taking the time to sing happy birthday, she painted the Parthenon on our living room wall. You can’t blame my dad for wanting to protect me from becoming someone who could do this.” I held out my sleeved arms as proof.

Noah reached for my arms, but I snapped them away. He pressed his lips together and then unexpectedly yanked off his shirt, revealing all of his six-pack glory. He thrust his bicep in my face.

I sucked in air. “Oh, God, Noah.” A circle of red skin protruded from his arm, the same exact size as—my stomach dropped— a cigar. I reached out to touch it then withdrew my hand.