Erasing Faith(47)

His palms moved over my shoulders and down my sides, skimming so softly I could barely feel them through my clothes. I was getting desperate — the need to feel his touch against my skin grew more urgent with each passing moment.

I lifted my arms to remove his shirt, more than ready to see what lay beneath, but he reached down, grabbed my hands, and pinned my wrists above my head in a firm, inescapable grip. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t move, as he held both my hands down with one of his own. He was in total control of my body, pulling expertly on those invisible threads that bound us together.

He touched; I responded. It was elemental, instinctual. The most basic of physical principles, brought to life by his hands.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

His hand traced down my breastbone; my back arched like a bowstring.

His fingers skimmed a spiral pattern up my neck and across my cheekbone; my head fell listlessly to the side, giving him better access.

His knee nudged my legs apart; I let them fall open so he could settle fully on top of me.

I was a puppet on a string. It should’ve been confining, demeaning.

It wasn’t.

It was electrifying. A thousand volts of lust pumped through my bloodstream, lighting me up from the inside out. It was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced.

“Wes,” I whispered, unable to form other words. Unable to ask for what I wanted.

His face moved closer, his mouth trailing wet kisses along my jaw, making me squirm with pleasure. His lips landed softly on mine, but he didn’t kiss me. They were the shadow of a kiss, the ghost of what I needed — teasing, taunting. He was driving me crazy.

“Please,” I begged, my eyes on his.

“What, Red?” He asked, grinning crookedly down at me. He was enjoying this, the bastard. “Use your words, like a big girl.”

I glared at him. “I don’t like you.”

His grin widened before he leaned forward and kissed me. Not another insufficient peck — a full-out, no-holds-barred kiss that invaded every one of my senses and left me gasping for breath when it was finally over. He pulled away, a smug look on his face, and I couldn’t remember what we’d been discussing only seconds before.

“Oh, I think you like me.” Wes taunted against my lips. “Especially when I do that.”

Okay, now I remembered.

“Or this,” he whispered, kissing a path down my neck, until his face was hovering directly over my cleavage. I forced my body to lay unresponsive under him, not to bend or break beneath his touch, as he slowly pulled the neckline of my t-shirt down. Somehow, this had become a contest — a battle of wills I knew I’d never win, but couldn’t stop myself from taking part in.

When whisper-soft kisses began to land against the lace of my bra, keeping still became nearly impossible. I needed to move, to touch him, to kiss him — and he wasn’t letting me. His hand began to move under my shirt, and I felt my spine go rigid with the effort to remain in control.

“Wesley Adams, if you don’t make love to me in the next thirty seconds, I will kill you,” I threatened in a murderous voice.

Wes’ head came up at the sound of his name. Laughter and lust faded from his eyes and something else — something painful — flashed in their depths. He abruptly released me, rolled to the empty space beside my body, and sat up, so we weren’t touching at all. A guarded expression masked his emotions from me.

I sat up and stared at him, eyes wide. “Wes?”

He didn’t look at me, and I saw the muscle ticking in his cheek like a time bomb as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“I was just kidding,” I said, reaching out to touch him. When my fingertips landed on his forearm, he flinched and lifted haunted eyes to meet mine. Whatever he saw on my face affected him so strongly, his expression immediately shuttered.

“I have to go,” he said haltingly, rising to his feet. His tone was cold. Impersonal. Like he was talking to a stranger, rather than the girl he’d been kissing like a madman for the past hour. I couldn’t fathom what had inspired this change in him. He had to be kidding around.

Right?

“What do you mean, you have to go?” I asked, a little hysterically. If he was joking, I was ready for the punchline.

“I’m sorry.” He stared straight ahead as he spoke. “I just remembered I have something to do for work.”

A beat of silence passed between us. It was eight o’clock at night — we both knew his words were a lie.

“Wes, what did I do?” I asked in a strangled voice. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong. If I did something…”

His eyes came back to meet mine. They were burning with fervent emotions I couldn’t name. “It’s not you, Red. You’re perfect. Don’t ever think it’s you.” Leaning down to where I was still sitting on the floor like a discarded rag doll, he pressed his lips fiercely to my forehead. He held the kiss for a long time and, inexplicably, I felt my eyes fill with tears.

“Are you saying goodbye to me again, Wes?” My voice wavered.

He didn’t say anything as he pulled his lips from my skin and turned for the exit. When he reached the door, he stilled with his hand on the knob. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, but his voice was hollow. I wondered if his promise was equally empty as I watched him pull open the door and step over the threshold.