Good For You (Between the Lines #3)

Good For You (Between the Lines #3) Page 42

Now I’m propped on my elbows, eye-level with naked breasts, when I’ve been celibate for a longer spel —by far—than any other time since I became sexual y active. I want her so badly that I’m dizzy with it, buzzing with the desire to rol her under me and take what she’s offering.

No cold shower could rid me of this hunger. I’d need a tub ful of ice.

I sit up and she rocks back a bit, her chest grazing mine, only the thin fabric of my t-shirt between us. Her breathing is shal ow, warm little puffs of air, cinnamon-tinted from the toothpaste. Licking her lips, she stares at mine. I pul her close and kiss her, deeply—an echo of a promise my body intends to keep.

She slides her hands under my shirt, and I break from her long enough to let her pul it off. And then we’re skin-to-skin and I’m losing my mind from the craving pushing every other thought and feeling aside. We kiss for long, torturous minutes, until final y I trail slow kisses down her neck, over her breasts, and in one movement I turn her onto her back, my tongue swirling around her navel, grazing the tiny bel y ring I discovered there a couple of weeks ago, during one of our reckless episodes.

“That… is so unexpected and hot,” I told her then, and watched her ears go scarlet.

Her hands clench fistfuls of bedding, and when my fingers dip into the waistband of her shorts, she lifts her hips. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and she sure as hel wants me.

Through the haze of longing, my brain switches back on, reminding me that for years, sex has been nothing more to me than a temporary remedy for isolation. I felt no actual connection, not once, since Brooke. There have been times when the solitude would return only moments after, pul ing me under. I don’t trust myself now, because this wanting is familiar, and Dori deserves to be more than another momentary high.

“Please,” she breathes, her hands kneading my shoulders insistently. My untimely scruples aside, there’s no way I’m not satisfying her. The boxers are loose and low on her hips, no barrier to my palm slipping beneath to stroke her soft skin as I return to kissing her until we’re both breathless, before sliding open-mouthed to return attention to her breasts and bel y, traveling progressively lower to the places my fingers have already explored. Her shocked response tel s me that there were some things Colin left out of her sexual education, the self-centered bastard.

I’m grateful for the remoteness of my room from the rest of the house, because she can’t keep her lower lip clamped between her teeth, can’t contain what I make her feel. I’m transfixed by the sound of her crying my name, her fingers twisting in my hair, her body trembling against me. She’s soon satiated and drowsy, while I anticipate hours of struggle before I find oblivion.

“Reid?” she says, so softly that I’m not sure, at first, that she’s awake.

“I’m here.” I gather her closer, stroking her hair over her shoulders, splaying it out over the pil ow. “Go to sleep, Dori.”

She inhales slowly and breathes out a sigh, her eyes stil closed as she cuddles against my chest, and then she mumbles faintly, “No. Your turn.” Without further warning, her fingers move over me, cautious but unerring, and she strokes her tongue over my nipple.

It doesn’t take very much. Or very long, I’m embarrassed to say.

Despite the crushing weight of the expectations placed on her, from the theological to the self-inflicted, what I needed was the last, selfless thought in her sleepy head.

Sated and awed, I fal asleep with her locked in my arms.

Dori

This waking is only similar to the last night I spent in Reid’s bed in one respect—the hangover sensations: headache, dry eyes, exhaustion. The cause is far different, though; a thick outpouring of grief wil do that.

Unlike the last time, though, I’m wearing his boxers and the t-shirt I wore to bed… and took off. Blurred memories surface of him reaching for me, pul ing it over my head, caressing me to sleep like Deb used to do when I had nightmares. He lies next to me, breathing metrical y, his lashes feathered closed, his lips barely parted. We’re curled in on each other, al arms and legs intertwined. One of his hands holds one of mine, loosely, while the other rests on my hip. It takes several minutes to careful y untangle my limbs from his.

I can’t think, and I need to get home. Last night, when Reid told me he’d talked to Dad, I was too fuzzy to think about consequences, but this morning, the cost of this night is staring me in the face. I may be eighteen, but I’m stil the daughter of concerned parents, stil financial y dependent on them, stil eager for their admiration. Even if I’m unworthy of it.

I always knew my secrets were safe with Deb. That she’d never tel , never judge. And while she was there for me to lean on—somewhere in the world, loving me—I could stand it. Perhaps I created a ticking time bomb, ignoring it al this time, and this pointless remorse would have come bubbling up even without the loss of my sister as a confidant. But I have lost her. She’s not gone, but she’s not here. My parents stil plead with God for a miracle, believing that Deb can be restored to her life, to her future, to us. I’d give anything to walk into her room and have her eyes meet mine instead of staring through me as though I’m invisible.

I know that’s never going to happen.

Maybe my lack of faith prevents the miracle from occurring. This is what my conscience, if that’s the name of the voice in my head, tel s me. I don’t know if a conscience can be wrong, or misguided, simply ignorant of al of the facts. Whatever the voice is, wherever it comes from, it’s subjective and unrelenting. Just not convincing.

Deb was the only person who knew who I real y was. Al of me. Now, Reid knows.

I’m not sorry for what we did. I didn’t think I was capable of ever trusting like that again. Letting go. Touching and being touched without a trace of self-consciousness.

Instead of leaving me feeling dirty, I feel clean. I unloaded my soul. I burdened him with my ugly little secret. He doesn’t have to carry it forever. Once I’m gone, he can lay it down. Leave it there. Forget. I’l never be able to do that, and I couldn’t deal, alone. Not for a single day more.

I pul on my jeans, brush my hair back and fasten it at my nape with an elastic I dig out of my bag, wash my face, brush my teeth. I have a travel-sized Crest in the Mary Poppins bag, but I use Reid’s organic whitening toothpaste instead. It tastes like him.

When I come out of the bathroom, he’s stil sound asleep. He’s rol ed onto his stomach into the warm place I left behind, sculpted arms around the pil ow, bare shoulders above the sheet. I swal ow the lump in my throat as I walk to his side and pul the covers higher. He sighs and burrows farther under, and I can’t stop my fingers from sweeping the hair from his forehead. I don’t know what we’ve been playing at—hiding from the paparazzi, from my parents, from everyone. I don’t know what this is, or was.

And then I think: I could fight for it. For him.

Turning the thought over in my mind, I stare down at the shel curve of his ear, poking out between wisps of tousled dark blond hair. He’s overdue for a haircut because I’d whispered that I like it a little too long. My gaze moves to the relaxed lines of his mouth—lips both yielding and demanding. I think of what he did to me last night with that mouth, and I can barely breathe.

I could go home and inform my parents that I love and respect them, but I’m eighteen and I have my own life to live, my own choices to make. Adrenaline spikes through me as I imagine their possible reactions in light of Dad’s statement: as long as you’re living here. Would they yel ?

Lay down the law? Kick me out? I’m terrified of their anger and disappointment, but the thought of severing my and disappointment, but the thought of severing my connection with Reid before I even know what it could be seems far more dismal.

I kiss Reid’s forehead. He’s such a sound sleeper that he barely stirs beyond another sigh. I pul on my jacket and leave a note under his phone: Going home to face the music. I’ll call you later. I chew my lip, take a deep breath.

My optimism is trying to push through. At least I won’t have to lie about seeing him anymore—that cover is blown. Mom and Dad won’t actual y throw me out, wil they? I’ve never defied my parents before, not like this, not even close. I have no idea what they’l do. But I feel strong. I can do this. I can do this.

Don’t worry, I add to the note, and then sign D.

After I let myself in, I find them both in the kitchen, parked in their usual places at the table. I take a deep breath and try to assess where we stand. Mom is in her hospital scrubs, the baby blue ones with the tiny darker blue stork print. Dad is dressed, shoes and al , despite the early hour. Coffee mugs are clenched in their hands. Both of them glance in my direction and then at each other, silently communicating, a skil they’ve perfected.

I pour myself a cup of coffee even though I’m far too on edge to add caffeine to my system. I pul my chair out and lower myself into it, hoping they’ve already told each other that it’s time to let go, let me make my own decisions, come to my own moral conclusions. Heat floods my face as I realize that they believe Reid and I had sex. Of course, there was intense intimacy in what Reid and I did. The fact that we did sleep together, for the second time, was also intimate. Al of it, however, is not their business, and I prepare to say this to them for the first time ever while I wait for one of them to speak. My heart is pounding.

Dad clears his throat. “Dori, your mother and I have some things we’d like to say before you… tel us your thoughts.”

Gripping the warm mug in my hands, I am perfectly stil , listening.

“First, we want to apologize. We’ve neglected you, ignored you even, since your sister’s accident. Please understand, we never intended for you to think you weren’t important to us, too. That you weren’t as… as loved as Deborah.” He falters and I feel tears burning. “We know you’re not a child anymore, but you don’t have the life experiences we do. We can’t stop wanting to keep you safe just because you’re a legal adult.” This approach is unanticipated and I can’t shift gears fast enough to catch up.

Their earnest expressions mirror each other. “Dori.” Mom’s voice is hoarse—she must have cried al night. She takes my hand. “Honey, what you’re doing is dangerous and self-destructive. I understand why you’d react this way, after what’s happened to Deb. But please, don’t do this.

This boy isn’t safe. This relationship can’t last—you must know that. I remember how you were after your breakup with that Colin… we couldn’t shake you out of your depression. Your dad and I were terrified at how you reacted to that loss. If not for Deb coming home...” She breaks with a sob, tightening her grip. Deb wil never come home again. “I can’t lose another daughter now. Please, Dori.”

Tears stream down my face and my brain races back over the past several weeks. I have behaved dangerously and acted in a self-destructive manner. I went to a club, got fal ing-down drunk, and almost left with a stranger. I could have been raped or beaten up. I could have been kil ed.