“Am—am I hurting you?”
His response is quiet. “You’re doing something to me, that’s for sure.”
“I should move—”
His knuckles graze the bottom of my chin, lifting slightly until I drag my gaze up to meet his. The look in his eyes makes my pulse jump.
I don’t know how so much intensity could be locked inside one person—the kind of intensity that sucks the oxygen from my lungs. He’s like the night sky just before a tornado hits: heavy and quiet all at once, whispering secret, dangerous promises and threatening to erupt at any moment.
But I don’t want to stop it.
His thumb brushes my bottom lip, tugging slightly, and he hones in on the movement. His Adam’s apple works up and down. “I had a match tonight.”
“A match?” I whisper, my eyelids growing heavy at the warm, hypnotic sensation of his barely-there touch on my lips.
He gives a slight nod, still watching my mouth. “Street fighting. It’s how I make a living.”
My attention snaps to the present with a jolt. “Street fighting? Since when?”
He drops his arm and lets out a sigh. He sounds so exhausted. Helooksso exhausted. Broken down and beaten. Now I know why. At least partially.
“Couple years,” he mutters, tearing his gaze away. “Got my feet wet when I was living on the streets in Dallas, and at first, it was just a way to blow off some steam.” His jaw ticks, and his eyes harden. “A way to cope. Turns out I had a knack for it, and I managed to save up just enough money to move in with Tim. But I didn’t have any connections once I came out here. Not till I met Mac anyway.”
“Who’s that?”
“He used to go to Burroughs High before he dropped out last year. Anyway, he tracked me down after school one day, said he recognized me from a couple of the Dallas matches and could hook me up out here for good money if I gave him a small cut. And that was that.”
I tilt my head, scanning his expression. “You didn’t try to find some other way to earn money? Or maybe think about asking Tim for help?”
He centers his stare on mine; it’s sharp enough to cut straight through me. “I’ve been taking care of myself a long time, Blue. I don’t need to ask anyone for anything.”
I almost wince, torn in half by the conviction lacing his tone. I’ve been alone a lot during my life, but my mom is always there when I need something. I’ve never known what having no one to lean on feels like.
“What about your dad? That was him the other night, wasn’t it?”
He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Conway hasn’t been my dad for a long time. As for another way to get a payday, nothing else offers someone like me the kinda money I need. Besides, it’s what I’m good at, and most nights, fighting’s the only way to get it all out.”
Leaning forward, I cup both sides of his face with my palms, brushing a thumb across the bruise on his cheekbone. “Get what out, Joshua?”
His body goes rigid, but he doesn’t look away. His stormy gaze flits back and forth between mine. For a minute, I’m sure he’s about to shove me off his lap.
“Believe me,” he warns, his voice gruff, “you don’t really wanna know me.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
He starts to jerk his head away, but I slide my hands higher until my fingers are in his hair, cradling him.
“You’re wrong. I want to know.”
Something unexpectedly dark flashes in his eyes. It’s wicked, almost challenging, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “You sure about that?”
My throat goes dry, but I nod.
His gaze sweeps down my body, hot enough to singe my clothes and shoot goose bumps down my legs. He slides his hands up my thighs higher, higher, until his thumbs slip under my shorts. He keeps his focus locked on my face, taking in every shift of my expression—from my parted lips to my wide eyes.
“What if I told you I don’t know how to give?” he asks, rugged and low. “That I just take, and take, andtake.”
“I’d say”—my breath hitches when his rough palms sink into my skin—“I don’t believe you.”
