“I’m up for that. Keeping this to just us will be the only way we’ll know if it works, yeah?”
I really like Trace’s answer. “Yes.” I glance over my shoulder. “Thank you.”
His eyes rove over my face, like he’s committing it to memory. “For what?”
“For agreeing. I didn’t think you would.”
“Because I’m a horn dog?”
“Because you like keeping your options open, and what you agreed to negates that.” I wince. “I’m sorry. Negates is a dumb word to use.” He must think I’m weird, speaking like I’m a talking textbook. “I meant, thank you for putting aside your libido for me.” Jesus, that’s worse. “I’m sorry, libido is a worse word than negates.”
He doesn’t laugh. He’s silent. My body is still waiting for his judgment. It doesn’t come.
“How you talk is you, Sorrow. Nothing you say is dumb to me.”
“Thank you for understanding. I have limited experience talking to kids our age. Well, everyone in general,” I admit.
“Because your parents kept you to themselves?”
“Yes.” The one word chokes me with emotions—sadness, regret, anger. What were their reasons for keeping me away from the world?
“Don’t ever be sorry for how you were raised. We don’t get to choose our parents, do we?”
Trace keeps his gaze forward. I don’t. I glance up at him again and linger.
Dark hair beneath his ball cap. It’s always messy, like he just woke up and ran his fingers through it, not bothering with gel or whatever guys put in their hair. Sharp nose. Full lips. A stubborn jut to his chin. Snatched jawline. Prominent Adam’s apple. Even in the dark, Trace Saints is sexy, a girl’s dream boy with his dreamy good looks.
I’m excited to be here with him. I’m not scared. What he does next sends a thrill of excitement through me. Trace picks me up with minimal effort and sits me sideways on his lap.
“Put your arms around my neck.” The low, sexy rumble of his voice near my ear has the place between my legs aching and my body on fire.
“Um, okay.” I do as he asks.
“Lean into me.”
I press my body against his.
His body heat seeps through my clothes and warms me like the time the sun shone in through the small basement window and I lifted my face. It felt so good to feel the heat on my skin and not be cold. My father rarely turned the heat on, reminding me we needed to save money and to bundle up instead.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed being warm until Trace put me on his lap and shared his body heat with me.
“Better?”
“How’d you know?”
“You’re too skinny. Skinny girls get cold easily.”
“Is this from experience?”
Do I really want to know? Why do I continue torturing myself by asking him questions I don’t want answers to?
“Never mind. I don’t want to know.” I skim my nose over his ball cap.
The fabric smells like the night air, sweat, and male musk. Liking his scent, wanting to commit it to memory, I move my head from side to side and inhale a deeper breath. Guys smell so good. Scratch that. Trace smells good.
“If you have your own bathroom, why do you use the one next to my room?”
He tsks. “Don’t feel comfortable just ’cause I’m sharing my heat with you and being nice. Guys love taking advantage of a situation for their benefit.”
