Summer Heat (Cruel Summer #1)(30)

I pressed her against the wall, holding her there as the music built around us. She locked eyes with me; it was like watching scales fall in rapid succession to the floor.

Her mouth met mine in a frenzy of heat and sweat.

My body roared to life as I kept her there.

Kept her safe from my reaction.

I kissed her back because I had no other choice.

And she clung to me like I’d always been her first.

The music ended, ready to loop again, breaking the moment between us. I slowly dropped her back down to the floor, her body slid roughly against mine, it was so painful I hissed out a curse. I wanted her. I wanted her. I wanted her.

Her face transformed into a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Ray.” My voice came out raspy. “You need to learn to trust the music.”

“I can’t.” She gave her head a shake.

I gripped her face with my palms. “Ray, you must. Or what the hell are you doing here? You give yourself completely to it. To your art. You sell your soul to the notes.”

“I’ve only ever given myself completely to one person,” was her cryptic answer. “And I let him down before he could.”

I jerked away from her.

She shook her head and walked out of the room, leaving me wondering if it was me she’d given herself to.

And if that was her way of saying sorry.





I TRIED TO pretend like it didn’t happen.

Like he didn’t just see me at my worst.

Like I didn’t just steal the best kiss of my life so that I would feel better about what Jackson said, about what everyone always saw.

My inability to fully commit to my craft.

Out of fear of rejection.

Out of fear that once committed, once denied, I wouldn’t have any parts of me left for me.

What if they love you?

What if they hate you over and over again?

What if in the end, after I give everything, I’m still found wanting?

I didn’t know how to separate myself from dancing, I never had. Acting was one thing, but dancing? Music? It had been our thing.



“Dance with me!” He let out a funny laugh that made me warm all over as we pressed our sticky palms together and started to dance.

“I’m going to be a dancer one day.” He twirled me.

I knew it was true.

Because he was so good.

Not his dancing.

His soul.

His soul was good — his dancing would be great.



I woke up in the same position I had gone to sleep in. I hadn’t showered the night before, something about washing Marlo off my body — off my mouth — only made my eyes sting with unshed tears.

With a groan, I checked the little digital clock near the cat calendar. Six a.m.

Great.

I still had a few hours to mentally prepare for my first class of the day. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world.

I got to my feet and almost swore.

My body hurt in places I didn’t know a body could hurt.

I limped over to my shower caddy, grabbed a towel and slid my feet into a pair of Uggs then made the trek down to the showers.

The lights were on.

But no showers were running.

I started the one on the far right; it was in the corner so it was the largest. At least I could stand under the hot water.

I turned up the radio station that was on so that I would have a distraction that would hopefully wake me up before coffee, and then started to strip.

“Sore?” A voice came from the door.

I almost stumbled into the wall. Thankfully, I at least still had my shirt and underwear on.

I turned.

Marlo was leaning against the wall, shirtless — just my luck.

And sweaty like he’d just gotten done running fifty million miles.

The guy’s abs heaved.

Sweat slid down each perfect muscle.

I gulped and looked away. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to move, though, had I not done the ice bath, thanks.”

He didn’t say anything.

I looked up.

He tilted his head and stared me down with those crystal blue eyes like he was trying to read my mind.

And then he approached, stopped right in front of me, and pressed his hands down on my shoulders.

I exhaled slowly.

He gripped them with his fingertips then turned my body around and started massaging.

I closed my eyes and fell back against him in a heap of pain as he kneaded my muscles, as he worked down my arms, down my back.

His breathing deepened.

Or maybe it was mine.

He was all hot, sweat sliding against my skin, pulling up my T-shirt, with each movement of our bodies melting together, like my clothes didn’t want to stay on anymore.

Like they had no choice.

“Fuck.” He stopped massaging.

I didn’t want him to stop.

I just — I wanted.

That was it.

I wanted.

He made me want.

It was a dangerous game we played.

One where hearts were involved more than bodies.

He pulled his hand back. I reached behind me, as he breathed into my neck. I grabbed that perfect hand and placed it on my stomach. His fingertips clutched my T-shirt and fisted it.

I sucked in a breath as he slowly peeled it off my body and then tossed it onto a nearby bench. My bare back was against his stomach, his chest. He was a fortress of heat and sex. My legs trembled as his mouth pressed against my shoulder.