“That was ten years ago,” I argued. “And you were fuckin’ sixteen years old, damn it.”
That’s what I hated about that fucking memory. Reagan Trevino had been mine for the taking, right there, sitting on the tailgate of my truck. It had been the day of my mother’s funeral, and she was the only person besides my family who had come to check on me. She had sat by the lake with me for hours. We talked about growing up, about my mother specifically, about the memories we both had of her.
And before the damn night was over, I had kissed her.
I'd been eighteen fucking years old and had no business putting my hands on a naïve sixteen-year-old girl. Didn’t matter if Reagan had kissed me back. I should’ve never done it.
So, I'd told myself I would wait until she turned eighteen.
“I’m not sixteen anymore, Lynx.”
No, she wasn’t. But she had a damn boyfriend?—
Only she didn’t have one anymore. The day she finally quit that bastard, I had considered chasing her down and convincing her to give in to me, to give in to how fucking good we could be together. The only thing that had stopped me was their history. Reagan always took Billy Watson back. For nearly a decade, I had sat back and watched as Reagan took that dumb little fucker back every damn time, and I figured this time was no different.
“What about Billy?” I asked because I couldn’t help myself. If I was even going to consider putting my hands on this girl, I had to know that Billy was in her past, that he would never be in her future.
“What about him?” Her dark eyebrows angled down, her confusion apparent.
“You gonna take his sorry ass back?”
Her frown turned to a grimace and I could tell I'd pissed her off with that question.
“What does that have to do with this?”
I sat up straight. “Every goddamn thing, Reagan.”
She put her hands on her hips. “How?”
Lowering my voice, I decided to be honest with her. If she thought she could handle me, she needed to know exactly what she was dealing with.
“Because the second I put my hands on you, the instant my mouth touches yours … that makes you mine, Reagan.”
She huffed. “I belong to no man, Lynx Caine. You should know that now.”
“Then it’s a damn good thing I’ve never touched you.”
“No,” Reagan replied hotly. “You’ve only touched every other female in this county.”
Not entirely true, but yeah. I wasn’t a damn saint, and truthfully, I'd been fighting my need for this one woman for so long I could admit that I'd searched high and low for someone who could eliminate her from my thoughts.
I'd yet to meet that woman.
I doubted she existed.
As far as I was concerned, there was only one woman meant for me.
And she was sitting right there in my truck, her lips pursed, her eyes blazing.
And once again, I seriously doubted I would end up getting what I wanted.
Because as much as I wanted to think otherwise, Reagan Trevino was too hard to handle, too much to tame.
Reagan reached for the door handle. “Fuck you, Lynx. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
I didn’t say a word.
She turned to face me once she was out of the truck. “And it’s not like I wanted your hands on me, anyway. I’ve already had one bad boy. I damn sure don’t need another.”
