Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(40)

It happens at once, but the first thing I register is Wes’s lips on my lips. His kiss is needy and desperate and tastes like my tears. I feel his hands clutching the back of my head next. Then, I begin to process the cold, hard tiles against my back. He’s kissing me like he did at the hardware store when he realized that we weren’t going to get shot—up against the shelves, angry and relieved and unable to express it any other way.

But, this time, there are no clothes between us, no hang-ups or reservations, and no storm brewing outside. This time, when I hitch my thigh over the V of his hip, he’s able to slide against me without a barrier. This time, when I angle myself so that he’s lined up perfectly, he fills me until my back drags up the wall, and my toes barely touch the ground. This time, I feel him everywhere. His feverish skin warms me from the outside in. His palms glide over my wet curves like he’s molding them from clay. And his heart—I feel that too—is pounding away just as hard as mine.

This connection is more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s as if he becomes someone else when we touch. No, it’s as if he becomes himself. The real Wesson. The one who is loving and passionate and aching for affection. I cling to that version as he takes me higher, pressing me into the wall and wrapping my other thigh around his waist. His strength is the only thing keeping me from falling, in more ways than one, and when I feel him swell inside of me, so does my heart.

I tighten my legs around his waist and pull him even closer, wanting as much of him as I can get. And he gives it to me, driving forward until his body rocks against my sensitive flesh, triggering an explosion of convulsions between my legs and fireworks behind my eyes. Wes follows me over the edge, groaning against my lips as his pulsing, jerking surge of heat fills me deep and makes me glow.

I don’t remember how long it’s been since my last birth control shot, and honestly, I don’t care. The only thing that matters right now is that, if I die tomorrow—and I very well might—it will be with a smile on my face and Wesson Patrick Parker by my side.





Wes


I suck a breath in through my nose and exhale through my gritted teeth as I sit on the edge of Fuckface’s bed and let Rain play doctor with my bullet wound.

She wrinkles her forehead and gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I know it hurts. I’m almost done.”

It’s not the gaping hole in my arm that hurts; it’s the one in my fucking soul that has me looking around for something to bite down on. The one that wants to shove Rain across the room and scream at her to stop touching me like that. It’s the part of me that’s never had somebody kiss my stupid fucking boo-boos that wants to rip the bandage out of her hand and slap it on myself. This shit is unbearable.

“There you go.” She smiles, sealing the edges of the bandage down with gentle fingers.

I catch her leaning in with her fat pink lips pursed, but I jump to my feet before she can actually kiss it. She might as well stab me in the fucking heart. Every kind thing Rain does for me is just one more reminder of everything I’ve been missing my whole fucking life. And, honestly, I’d rather not know.

I was so much happier when people used me for a paycheck from the government or a fuck boy, and I used them for a roof over my head or a place to stick my dick. I knew where I stood. Things were simple, relationships were temporary, and I knew all the rules. Hell, I’d invented them.

But this shit with Rain is fucking with my head. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know if she actually cares about me or if she’s just using me as a stand-in for her missing boyfriend. I don’t know if I’m keeping her around because she’s useful or if I’ve gone and done the one thing I swore I would never do to another person as long as I lived.

Gotten attached.

I feel Rain watching me as I pace the floor of her real boyfriend’s bedroom like a caged animal. “We’ve gotta go.” I don’t have to tell her why. Tomorrow’s date is hanging over our heads like the blade of a guillotine.

Rain nods once. She looks younger today without all that makeup on. Her wet hair hangs limp around her face and stops bluntly at her chin. The sleeves of her plaid flannel shirt are too long and bunched in her fists. And her wide blue eyes blink up at me with the trusting innocence of a child.

This isn’t just about me anymore, and that fact makes finding the bomb shelter even more imperative.

I pull my holster on over my wifebeater and cover it with my Hawaiian shirt. I couldn’t sleep last night until I got my gun from the kitchen. I can’t ever sleep unless I know there’s a weapon within arm’s reach. Even as a kid, I used to stash a kitchen knife under my pillow at night.

I wish I could say I’d never had to use it.

Rain slides off the bed and kneels beside the backpack while I pull on my jeans and boots. She shoves her extra clothes, the first aid kit, and my meds inside, but not the hydrocodone. That she uncaps and shakes into her palm without making a sound. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she covertly pushes a little white pill into her mouth and tucks the orange bottle into her bra through the neck of her shirt.

At first, I thought she didn’t want me to see her dosing because she was afraid I’d take her pills again, but the more I watch her, the more I realize she’s not afraid; she’s ashamed. She’s ashamed of her dependence.