Summer Heat (Cruel Summer #1)(29)

With that, he left.

He left me alone.

With a towel in my right hand, and my body buzzing with excitement and pleasure.

He’d touched my feet.

He’d massaged them.

Why?

Why was he being nice?





I STARED UP at the ceiling. I adjusted my pillow. I checked my phone. It was past midnight, and I couldn’t get her face out of my head.

Pissed at myself, I decided to go for a run to see if I could mentally and physically exhaust myself. I quickly put on a pair of shorts and Nikes, then grabbed my pods and phone and ran out of my cabin.

The trail around the lake was about five miles. I sprinted. I pushed my body so hard that everything hurt. Sweat ran down my chest as I neared the mess hall and noticed that the dance studio lights were still on.

I clenched my teeth, irritated that Ray had spaced and left them on. Then again, she’d been so exhausted I could almost understand how it slipped her mind.

Almost.

I jogged over and took the stairs two at a time then yanked open the screen door.

One lamp was lit in the corner.

And there was Ray dancing.

Swiveling her hips to the main theme song of the movie as if Johnny was holding her close, dipping her body backward.

Fuck me, she was dancing the sex scene.

And I was watching.

I gulped.

I didn’t let her know I was there.

I wanted to see what she would do.

I wanted to see how far she would take it, how much she would dedicate her body to each movement, each erotic dip of her hips.

Her eyes were closed as she bent backward, lifting her foot as if she was hooking it around a body.

My breath hitched as she turned quickly, and then parted her lips like she was letting some invisible bastard run his hands between her breasts, and then lower, she touched herself like they were his hands.

Not mine.

She kept touching.

And I watched.

A warm breeze pushed through the windows and wrapped itself around my body. I couldn’t look away from her as she danced, as she pushed her exhausted body past the point of coming back.

She twirled.

I watched each step.

I counted.

Her black crop top fell over one shoulder, and her white shorts showed off her lean, tan legs. My mouth went completely dry.

One, two, three, spin, dip backward. I knew the musical by heart, I imagined my hands on her neck, my lips replacing my hands, gripping her thigh and pulling it against me while she hungrily clawed at my neck.

Abruptly, she spun and spun like she was purposely trying to make herself dizzy, and that’s when I noticed the tears.

She was a fucking ballerina.

I don’t know how I never noticed it before.

The way she twirled.

She had perfect feet.

But Jackson was right. He’d said something was missing. He’d been cryptic as hell.

More tears fell as she spun, and then she collapsed to the floor in a heap of tears and so much sorrow it hurt to look at her.

I should walk away.

But instead, I walked over to her.

I knelt down and tilted her chin toward me.

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it.

She just looked up at me with hopeless empty eyes. I wondered what sort of soulless human would be so cruel as to stare at her — knowing that they were responsible for that look — and walk away as if it didn’t matter.

I didn’t speak.

I just walked over to the lamp and turned the small black nob.

Blanketed in darkness, the music started another loop, obviously on repeat. I reached for her hands and pulled her into my arms.

“Don’t close your eyes,” I whispered.

Tears continued to stream down her face as I gently pulled her body against mine. Her expression turned numb.

Like she was purposefully shutting down.

Like it would hurt too much to feel more than she was already feeling.

“See me,” I whispered. I knew the risk. I jumped anyway.

She startled and turned her head.

“See me.” I gently gripped her chin and pulled it back toward me, and then our foreheads touched, I pressed a kiss to her cheek, wiped her tears with my lips, licked the saltiness with my tongue, and then very slowly braced her body and let her fall back. “Trust me.”

She stiffened.

“It’s just us,” I encouraged.

She didn’t let go.

It was one of the most disappointing moments of my life.

I was both afraid to break her and afraid to let her live that same hollow existence through the music.

Music set souls free.

It didn’t trap them.

The sadness choked me.

I pulled her against my chest, harder this time, then threw her body back, forcing her to arch against my hand as I thrust her against my chest. I gripped her thigh with my fingers, so hard it would leave a mark, and then I spun her back. She let out a little gasp as I swiveled my hips against hers showing her the correct rhythm, how to feel it, how to breathe it in.

The tension built as the music shifted from straight up dancing to something more sexual. I touched her then. I ran my hand down the middle of her breasts, I cupped her ass and forced her to watch me do it. I forced her attention on me, on the music, on us and what it built between us.

She bit down on her bottom lip as her eyes filled with more tears. I spun her out from me and then jerked her back and gripped her hips lifting her effortlessly into the air as she wrapped her arms around me.