“I’m sorry.” I try to press my lips together so they’ll behave, but I feel them twitching under his scrutiny. “You just sound so ...distressed.”
His lips tug into a begrudging smile. “My mortal terror is funny to you?”
“A little.” I don’t realize my hand has wandered from his shoulder to smooth down his arm until he glances at it. I hastily pull my hand away, leaning back so I’m resting on the balls of my feet. Then I remember I’m in my pajamas, and even though they’re in no way sexy or revealing, they’re mypajamas. They’re what I wear to bed. I hurriedly cross my arms to cover myself. “Is there a particular reason you’re climbing buildings to find my room?”
Wes sits up, facing me. “There was just some official FBI business I had to talk to you about.”
That sounds ominous. “Official FBI business?” I echo worriedly.
Wes nods, wetting his lips. I wait for him to tell me what it is, but he just stares at me, brow furrowed. “Wes?” I prompt.
He blinks. “Um, well. The business is ...” He swallows. “I had to see you.”
Oh. Something inside of me melts. Despite my better judgment, I feel myself flushing with pleasure. He came for me? He had to seeme?I feel like I might be dreaming; this, it’s too much what I’ve been hoping to hear him say.
Even so, I try to keep my expression firm. Despite what I’ve been grappling with, nothing has really changed. He might not remember that in this moment, but he will soon. And when he does, it’s going to break my heart. “Wes. This is not a good idea.”
“You’re right,” he agrees quickly, too quickly. Then tilts his head at me, looking somehow both wounded and genuinely perplexed. “Why not, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, because it’s very hard to remain lucid when he’s here in my room, gazing at me with those beautiful green eyes. I’ve never seen a color quite like it before. Like a lovely, clear pool on a warm, sun-dappled day. After a moment, though, the many, many reasons we can’t be together come crashing back to me. I press my own eyes shut so I won’t have to look at him as I say it. “My family. The show. The FBI investigation.”
“Oh, that.” His tone is light, but it’s obviously forced. Cracking my eyes open again, because apparently I’m a masochist, I can see he feels the weight of it all, too, as he gazes at me over the few feet separating us. “What if I ... don’t care?”
“You do care,” I remind him gently.
He leans toward me, only slightly, but in my postage-stamp-sized room, it significantly closes the gap between us. “What if I caremoreabout you? What if I never stopped thinking about you? What if I don’t want to have to pretend that I don’t feel this?”
All the air in my lungs leaves in a whoosh. My gaze darts between his eyes and his lips, not quite sure where to land. “Wes,” I say again, and I know I ought to say more, but I can’t seem to make myself.
All my life, I’ve been taught to put everyone else first, to put my own needs last, and I know I ought to do that now, too. But something about Wes makes that impossible. I want him, and I’ve always wanted him, all to myself. Just for me.
Mine.
Slowly, slowly, Wes leans forward. One hand comes to rest on my waist. The other cups the side of my face. He waits for a moment, and I know he’s giving me the chance to spook, to run, but I don’t. My heart is pounding, my body is shaking, but I remain in place, waiting. I’m not quite brave enough to close the gap between us, but I am brave enough to stay still so he can.
When his lips touch mine, it feels as good, as right, as it ever did. I guess Wes is my very own time machine, because suddenly it’s like no time has passed since that other kiss, underneath a table in a prison library, our bodies pressed together so tight I could feel his heartbeat dancing with mine. Somehow, amazingly, it’s even more dangerous for us to be together now than it was then—with only a thin hotel wall between us and the rest of my family, and the weight of an entire FBI investigation looming over us.
For so long, I told myself I was so weak, so sinful, for kissing him that first time. But now it’s starting to feel like I was wrong, not in the action but in the regret, because I’m responding to him just as readily as before. My pulse pounds. My skin tingles. There is nothing else in the world except for where he’s touching me, nothing but his heart and mine.
I’m immediately lost in the sensation, the warmth of his lips and the solid press of his body against mine. That magnetic pull tugging me toward him every time we’re near each other only intensifies with our lips moving together. When he slides his tongue against mine in a slow, sinuous movement, my mind erases any thought exceptmore, more. I need to be closer to him. I need more of him. All of him.
I’m not aware of us moving until my back presses up against the wall. Wes uses this additional support to shift our bodies, silently urging me to climb higher. I open to him willingly and eagerly, wrapping my legs around his waist, feeling his grunt of pleasure as he pushes up against me. He’s hard, pressing into me, and I am already getting wet and pulsing with need through my layers of clothing. His groan makes me tighten instinctively, and when he thrusts up against me, I gasp into his mouth.
It ought to be ridiculous, the two of us grinding against each other frantically, still fully clothed. But our mutual need is too strong. It ought to feel shameful. Itisshameful. I’m proving everything my uncle has said about me right. I’m taking what isn’t mine.
Only this time, it is mine. Wes is mine. And it doesn’tfeelwrong. How could it be wrong if it feels so right?
After a few moments, he’s the one to pull away, breathing heavily as he rests his forehead against mine. My heart is racing, and it’s a struggle not to chase his lips with mine, not to demand more,more.It feels like there could never be enough of us.
His eyes gaze intently into mine, the connection even more charged than usual at such a close proximity. “We can leave, tonight. Together.”
“What about your investigation?” It’s not really a question, more of a reminder. I know this isn’t just a job for him. He mustbelievein what he’s doing to put his life on pause and pretend to be someone else for days, weeks, months at a time. And I can’t be responsible for asking him to throw that all away.
“I don’t care about the investigation,” he says quickly. Too quickly.
I pull back so I can give him a look. I can’t help it—he sounds so much like a petulant child, and it’s obvious he doesn’t really mean that. “Sure, Jan,” I tell him.
I wasn’t trying to be funny, but the conversation was heading to such a dark, tense place that I think we’re both relieved for the reprieve. He laughs, and I laugh quietly with him as he shakes his head at me. “Jan?”
