Filthy Foreign Exchange(42)

It was bound to happen—any girl with eyes would choose Kingston. I’m surprised it took this long.

“Kiiingston,” she purrs, eating him up with a look of pure lust. “I dare you to come over here and kiss the hell outta me.”

His eyes flicker to mine, question and worry swimming in their depths. “Echo, I can’t take a shot. I can’t drink and have your parents smell it on me—or worse, drive.”

“You’re absolutely right.” I hitch my shoulders, as though the dull sting inside me isn’t quickly building to paralyzing levels. I want to say to him, “You don’t have to do either. It’s a stupid game—not mandatory.” But even more so, I want him to refuse on his own. Why would he do that, though, after wanting to play the game in the first place?

“Echo?” He nudges me, the pleading in his eyes almost enough to persuade me to rescue him, like he’s begging me to.

But then I think of the times when I know my eyes have asked the same of him—Rescue me, Kingston. Say something, anything, to save me from feeling like a smitten little fool of a girl who misread your signals—only to have him ignore it.

So I put up my guard, like he’s been training me over and over to do, and answer him hollowly. “Guess you better go kiss the hell outta her then.”

“Let’s go, Hawthorne! You’re holding up the game!” Clay prods loudly. “Hell, you’ve f*cked half the town already. What’s a kiss matter?”

“I’m sorry,” Kingston whispers to me.

Sorry for what? Is he sorry he’s just been accused of having slept with half the town, that he has to kiss her, or both?

He stands and takes slow steps toward the girl. She’s waiting impatiently with a huge smile on her face, needlessly pushing her chest out. We’ve all already seen ‘em, dumbass.

I don’t know what he’s sorry for, nor do I know whether he kisses her deeply and slowly, running his hands through her hair, or hard and fast—because I’m out the door and hightailing it to my truck before he even makes it all the way to her.





Chapter 17


“Echo, wait!”

Guess that answers one question. He must’ve kissed her hard and fast if he’s running after me so soon.

“Christ, Echo, would you just bloody stop?” I hear his steps pounding on the pavement, doubling mine, his voice sounding closer now.

He’s going to catch me…and then what do I say? “Why the hell does it feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut?” “Do I want you so badly because I can’t have you?” “Is this yearning for you that continues to creep up on me, no matter how many times I tell myself we can’t be anything more than friends, even real?”

I’m at my truck, but I don’t jump in. I stand frozen, facing the door, keys in hand. And the resentment, confusion, and pain coursing through my entire body turn into something fiery and intoxicating as he comes to stand right behind me.

He’s panting in deep, husky breaths that ruffle my hair and singe my neck.

“Will you turn around and look at me, please?”

“Did you kiss her?”

Why this one kiss, among what I assume are countless others he’s had in this town, bothers me so much, I don’t know. But it does.

“Turn around and ask me to my face. Then I’ll answer you.”

I don a mask of indifference (or so I hope), and turn slowly around to face him.

His eyes are a deep, smoldering gray as he moves closer, forcing me back against the side of my truck. He braces his arms on either side of my head, trapping me in the cage of his massive frame. And then he lowers his face so our lips are too close, our breaths mingling.

I’m imprisoned in his gaze, his scent, and his powerful body looming over mine. And there’s not a slice of fear in me—only the need for answers as to what’s happening between us, and whether it’s only me feeling it this time.

“Now, then,” he says in a low, gravelly voice. “Ask me again.”

I lick my lips, gulping down any second-guessing. “Did you kiss her?”

“No.”

No? While I very much like that answer, is that all he has to say?

His eyes remain trained on mine as the silence between us lingers. If I leaned forward, just an inch, our lips would touch. I’d finally know how his feel, taste…if it’s really all I’ve imagined it would be, or just a need to quench my curiosity.

“Kingston, I—”

“I know, Love, me too. God damn it,” he growls, suddenly grabbing his hair with both hands. “Me. Too. Fuck!”

I don’t even know everything I was about to say, or am feeling, so I certainly don’t understand exactly what’s going on with him right now. I’ve never seen him like this: pacing, angry…like a caged beast.

“Get in your truck and drive home,” he orders. “I’ll follow you.”

“But—”

“No.” He stops pacing and drops his head and shoulders, rubbing hard at the back of his neck. “Please don’t say anything else. Just get in your truck and go.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

I do as he begs, using the drive time to replay the scene in my head. And by the time I pull into my driveway, I no longer feel rejected or bewildered. I have clarity, and finally understand what just passed between us.