“I’m almost seventeen.” The childish plea slipped free before she could catch it and lock it away.
When he still made no move toward her, she tried again, one last time. “Preacher… I’m not a virgin.”
His nostrils flared. His eyes were liquid fire. But still, he didn’t move. More seconds ticked by. Then, just as Debbie was feeling the faint stirrings of defeat infiltrate her haze of need, he was back.
An arm came down on either side of her, caging her in, and Debbie dragged herself up the wall onto her tiptoes, reaching.
His lips were on hers, her hands tangled in his shirt, and they kissed hard and fast until their breaths grew ragged and kissing was no longer enough.
Lifting Debbie off the ground, Preacher used his body to keep her flat against the wall. Legs around his waist, ankles locked at his back, she brought that desperate, aching place between her thighs flush with the bulge in Preacher’s jeans. He ground himself against her, half growling, half groaning into her mouth, and if Debbie’s eyes had been open, they would have rolled back.
She. Was. Melting.
Melting into nothing. Weightless. Writhing energy. A feather-light slave to the throbbing need between her legs.
Everything else… gone.
She’d finally found it—a place to exist without pain.
Chapter 21
Heat.
Debbie was feeling intense heat all over her body that had nothing at all to do with the warm, sticky night air, the blazing bonfire before her, or the whiskey she’d consumed.
The heat was from the lean body she was tucked against, the muscled arm wrapped around her, and the calloused fingertips tracing invisible lines over and under her collarbone. Back and forth, up and down, Preacher lulled her into a place she’d never been before.
If she let herself, it’d be easy to forget that they weren’t the only ones seated around the bonfire.
Everyone was here; even Preacher’s father had chosen to join them. Seated in one of the few lawn chairs, Gerald stared somberly into the fire, while most of the others engaged in quiet conversations amongst themselves. Janis Joplin’sSummertimewas playing on the tape deck and Ginny and June were singing along. Across the way, Knuckles and Max were roasting marshmallows.
Preacher’s fingers stilled as he bent his head to hers. “Tell me somethin’ else about you, Wheels. Gimme more truth.”
She shook her head. There was no way she was going to ruin any more moments with more of her truths. “Nope,” she said, her tone intentionally light. “It’s your turn. Tellmesomething aboutyou.”
“What else is there to know? You’ve already met my entire family.”
Debbie angled her head toward Preacher. Firelight and shadows danced across his handsome face.
“How’d you get the name Preacher?” she asked.
“Same way you got the name Wheels.” His lips twitched; humor glinted in his eyes. “Some asshole thought it was funny.”
Giggling, Debbie sank down against Preacher’s side and turned back to the fire. His fingers started up again, sliding back and forth across her clavicle before dipping down low. Preacher slowly outlined the swells of her breasts, sending jolts of sensation tearing straight to her core.
Feeling flustered and fevered, Debbie gulped down her next several breaths, then gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle propped between her legs and took a lengthy swig.
As if Preacher somehow realized the fiery thoughts running amok in her mind, he chuckled quietly, his warm breath tickling her neck and sending a heated shiver down her spine.
All day long, since the encounter at the bathhouse, Debbie had been able to think of little else. She hadn’t wanted to stop. It had been Preacher who’d eventually pulled away, who’d said “not here” in a heavy, hoarse tone that belied his words. Who’d then taken her hand and led her back to the swimming hole.
And though he hadn’t kissed her again, Debbie couldn’t think of a single moment since that he hadn’t been touching her. An arm around her shoulders. His fingers brushing against hers. A hand at her waist, sinking slowly down her hip. And in doing so, he’d kept her in this strange state of being, lost in a haze, teetering on the edge between reality and sensation.
“I’m the asshole who coined him Preacher.”
Debbie’s haze cleared. The gruffly spoken statement had come from Gerald. Leaning forward in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin, his eternal grimace was focused on Debbie.
Feeling the weight of Gerald’s scrutiny as if it were a crushing boulder, she attempted to straighten, but Preacher’s arm across her chest only tightened.
