Rebound (Boomerang #2)(9)

Give this to yourself, says the voice in my head. What can it hurt?

I’m not sure whose voice it is. It doesn’t sound like my own. Maybe it’s Catwoman’s? My voice would tell me to slide out of the car, run down the path—preferably without breaking any bones, and call Philippe to rescue me from myself before I do something impulsive? something I might regret.

This is supposed to be about business, about proving to my parents that I’m okay now. That I’m capable of doing what needs to be done. I shouldn’t be here, in the back of this car, with this gorgeous stranger. Should definitely not wrap my legs around his and pull him hard against me. Shouldn’t bring my lips down to his so I can feel his sweet warm breath again, draw his tongue into my mouth, feast on his taste, which is honey and whisky and salt.

But I’m all in, already. I’m voting yes to that voice that says no one even knows you’re here, Ali. No one knows you’re you. I’m way off-task from where I started this night, but right now I don’t care about Ethan or Adam Blackwood or due diligence. I’ve never felt this way before. Not swept up like this, tuned into another person so that I wanted him down to his pulse. Not even Ethan.

We kiss and kiss, and I melt against him. We’re slippery—leather against satin—and it’s so maddening. I want to feel his skin, all of its roughness and sleek, muscled planes.

He breaks away, as if surprised by something. Like something’s switched on inside him. He eases me back a bit to look at me, but it’s like he’s actually come closer.

“What do you know about mistakes?” Zorro asks.

I’m surprised he’d bring it up again, but I answer. “Too much,” I say.

I know that the choice of one moment can turn your life inside out, robbing you of everything you thought you wanted. And I know what it’s like to live day after day with the knowledge that you have no one to blame but yourself.

“I know they can eat away at you until it feels like they’re all you have. Like you’ve forgotten everything else about yourself. But this—” I trace my fingers along the bold marks on his skin—“This also means you’re human, and you’ve lived, and maybe you’re more than whatever choice led you to put this on your body.”

I don’t know if he’s listening to me or if I even believe what I’m saying. I’ve been reckless, and I’m doing it again, but this feels different to me. It feels like a gift I’m giving to myself, one that can’t possibly hurt anyone else.

Lacing my fingers behind his neck, I pull him back down to me.

“Kiss me,” I tell him. It’s quiet, and I feel the party throbbing in the house nearby, but I want to be distracted from that, want to just feel his lips and his hands on me again before I take myself back off into the night.

But he hovers there instead, mouth inches from mine, breath tickling my skin. His mouth curves into a smile, and he says, “Tell me something first.”

“What?”

“Anything.” He licks his lips, and the mask makes him look hungry and dangerous. “Something else that’s . . . true.”

“Something true?”

“Yes. Something real . . . Anything.”

“Okay.” This feels so dangerous but tempting too. This whole night is out of time, a bubble removed from the rest of my life. It’s exhilarating to feel hidden and unmasked at the same time. “But only if you do it too.”

“Deal.”

I consider for a moment and then I tell him, “I’m not crazy about people, but I love horses.”

He chuckles, deep in his throat, and even though I’ve never been a funny girl, I feel hungry to get a big full laugh out of him, to see his head thrown back, his face relaxed in pleasure. “Why is that?”

“I guess you know where you are with horses. They’re sly sometimes, but they’re always honest. And when you find the right one, it’s like this amazing, powerful extension of yourself. Something that trusts you and that you trust in the most perfect way.”

He’s not smiling now but looking at me in that way that moves beyond my words down to some core part of me. And then he frames my face in his hands and kisses me. It’s deeper this time, more giving, his mouth perfect on my own, tongue everywhere, darting, tasting.

We shouldn’t be able to move together like this, tucked in the back of this Murano, but it’s seamless and so hot. He’s hard against me, and my hands travel down to his lower back, moving against him, wishing Philippe hadn’t done such a good job of sewing me into this thing so that I could have him, really have him.

Zorro’s mouth moves down to my throat where he dips his tongue into the hollow there. I always feel so birdlike and angular, but his lips change everything, make me feel luscious and perfect.

I want more from him too, I realize. More from this night. It can’t just be his body and his hooded, intense eyes. There’s something there I need to get to, something behind the mask.

“Wait,” I say, though it practically cuts me in two to stop him. I slide out from under him, not at all easy to do, and he sits up on the backseat, slouching against the side window.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression concerned. “Was I—”

“No,” I tell him. “You’re perfect. This is—I can’t even tell you how good it feels. It’s just . . . It’s your turn.”