Page 49 of Break Point

Her gaze remains locked on mine until the moment she leans down and dusts my lips with hers in the sweetest kiss of my entire life. Nothing about this touch is hurried, and I fight against my instincts to pull her into me harder, to take over and consume her mouth with mine. Instead, I revel in the sweetness. I hold her bottom lip hostage between mine, daring to taste it with my tongue just once before she pulls away. She doesn’t step back from me, and she doesn’t seem to mind my palms on her hips, or the brush of my legs against hers. I’m not apt to change a single thing about right now. At least, not until her lashes kiss her cheeks a few times, and she finally says, “Take me home, Bryson.”

Chapter 18

Jaden

The way Bryson’s thumb keeps grazing the back of my hand during the world’s slowest rideshare trip has me covered in permanent goose bumps. This kind of flirtation isn’t a thing I do. Ever. In fact, it’s a thing I’ve only done once. And not well. At least, nothing about it felt good to me.

This time, everything feels good. The subtlest touch has my skin thrumming with a strange energy, and my bottom lip still seems to feel the sweet pressure of his lips. If I weren’t, well, me, I would already be making out with him in the back seat of this Toyota Camry. It took all my courage to kiss him that first time, though. I think I’m going to need the anticipation during our trip home to refill my audacity.

When the car finally rolls to a stop outside my apartment building, Bryson takes my hand, urging me to follow him out on his side, close to the curb. We thank the driver before pushing the back door shut, then linger in the dried patch of grass in front of my building.

“I’m sorry about dinner. I’m also embarrassed, I think?” Bryson squints one eye as he steps in front of me, the toes of our shoes touching as our fingers mingle.

“We all have our things,” I say, lifting a shoulder.

Bryson’s mouth inches up on one side.

“Do you have a stepmom who’s almost the same age as your sibling, and a father who thinks that anything other than Oklahoma, Texas, and oil is stupid?” A deep and slightly sad chuckle rumbles in his throat.

“Well, my brother’s twelve, so that would be really weird.”

His shoulders quiver with quiet laughter, but it doesn’t take long for the electricity to begin crackling in the space between us again.

“So, you’re home now,” he says, tilting his head toward the entrance to my building. His fingers thread through mine until our palms touch.

“I am.” I suck in my bottom lip, my pulse pounding so hard I wouldn’t be shocked if he felt it. We stare at one another through a long bout of uncomfortable silence, and I’m the first to break, dropping my gaze to the ground with a nervous giggle.

“I’m not good at this,” I admit, flitting my eyes up through my lashes.

Bryson shakes his head slowly.

“I disagree, Jaden. I think you’re very good at this.” He bites his lip the way the guys do in all those damn videos Taryn sends me on social media. I didn’t realize that was a real thing that guys did, or that it was this irresistible in real life.

I roll my eyes, mostly to tease him.

“So fucking cute,” he utters, bringing my attention right back to his eyes. I swallow hard.

“It’s your call, Crash. I can go home, maybe catch Walker and Ashton before they hit the bars. Or . . .”

I begin to lick my lips but hold my tongue between my front teeth as I muster my courage.

“Or,” I say before stepping up on my toes and leaning in close enough to dust his lips with mine. I take a step back, keeping our hands tethered and hoping he’ll follow. I exhale when he does, but my nerves have only tripled.

Part of me wants to race up the steps to my apartment, but the awkward girl who lives inside my competitor skin wishes there were twice as many to buy myself time. I know Taryn will be out at the bars, so the apartment is empty. I also know what my body wants. It’s craving more of Bryson, more time with his touch, to be felt in new places. It’s my head that’s overthinking things. It’s the doubt. And maybe a lingering hurt from his father’s words.

We reach my door, and before I turn the key in the lock, I spin around and meet Bryson’s eyes with a pointed look.

“I need to know,” I say, surprising him enough that he backs up a half step. I’m glad, because if I keep smelling the mesquite honey emanating from the crook of his neck, I’m going to turn into putty. And putty can’t ask the questions I need answers to.

He lifts his chin with a slight nod.

“What did your dad mean? When he said we weren’t really on the same level?”

Bryson’s expression flattens, and his head falls toward his right shoulder. My stomach twists as a cold shiver washes over my chest, and rather than simply bracing myself for the truth, I attempt to beat Bryson to it.

“Is it because I’m not pretty enough?”

I suck in a sharp breath through my nose, the unexpected sting of uttering those words hitting harder than I thought they would. I wear my confidence like armor, but I know I can be hard. I’m not a delicate woman. I don’t have soft features or long nails or slender legs. Most of the time, I don’t pay those nagging negative voices in my head much attention. But sometimes, when I’m in a room with well-dressed, polished, beautiful people, I hear them. I know I don’t belong. Bryson’s quick flinch at my words, however, stems the burning in my chest, and the brush of his knuckles along my cheek makes me quiver.