Page 52 of Deviant
I shove him hard, both hands on his chest. He takes one step back, and that’s it. He doesn’t fall, doesn’t stumble, just absorbs it and looks at me like I’ve confirmed something he already knew.
“There it is,” he says quietly.
“Stop doing that. Stop acting like you know me.”
“Idoknow you.”
“You don’t.”
He grabs my wrists and holds them against him—both of them—his hands wrapped around my pulse points. I pull against his grip but he doesn’t let go, and we stand there, in the middle of Aria’s living room, in a standoff that has nothing to do with the texts and everything to do with every single thing that’s been building since the first night at the bonfire.
“Let go of me.”
“Stop running, and I will.”
“I’m not.”
“You drove here, in the middle of the night, Rhett.” His voice drops. “You could have texted. You could have called. Instead, you got in your truck and drove here because some part of you, that you won’t listen to, needed to be here. I’m not the person sending those texts, but Iamthe reason you can’t sleep, and you know it.”
I stop pulling against his grip. “I hate you,” I say, but my voice comes out low and rough and completely unconvincing.
“No, you don’t.” He loosens his grip on my wrists but doesn’t let go. His thumbs press lightly against my pulse and I know he can feel how fast my heart is going. “You wish you fucking could. That’s different.”
I kiss him.
Not like in the forest. Not hard and angry and to prove something—or maybe it starts that way. My hands grab the front of his shirt, pulling him in because I have to do something with all of this, and this is the only thing that makes the noise stop.
But then, it shifts. Within seconds, the kiss shifts into something that scares me more than the anger did. Something that wants to go slow—that wants to stay.
Colt kisses me back, his hands moving to my face, tilting me where he wants me. And the thoroughness of it—the way he takes his time … the way he kisses … like he’s learning something he intends to remember.
We break apart, and he looks at me.
I look back.
All the fight has left my body.
“While you’re here …” he says, his voice rough, eyes dark. He tilts his head toward the hallway. “Let me show you something.”
My heart is slamming against my ribs. “Colt.”
“I’ve got you. I’vealwaysgot you. You know that.”
I follow him down the hall, anxious as fuck. Is this actually what I want? The thoughts in my head war in my head. Should I leave now, while I’m ahead? Live a life that I know is safe and calm. Or do I go into that fucking bedroom and find out if this is what I’ve been missing my entire life.
His room is small and lived-in. A lamp on the nightstand casts a warm light, there are clothes on the chair in the corner, and the window is cracked, letting the night sounds in. It smells like him—tobacco and leather, something that has been living in my memory for weeks without permission.
He turns to face me, reaching for my shirt, and I catch his hands.
“I haven’t—” I stop, then start again. “I don’t know how to.”
“I know.” He says it simply. “I’m going to take care of you. All you have to do is tell me if you need me to stop.”
I let go of his hand.
He takes my shirt off slowly, then lays his palms flat against my chest before slowly moving them to my shoulders and my sides. I feel every point of contact with a clarity that’s almost painful. My whole nervous system has rerouted itself and is reporting exclusively from wherever his hands are.
“You’re tense,” he observes.
