Page 40 of The Summer We Lie

The door clicks shut behind him, and I turn my attention fully back to Skye. She's still completely unaware of my presence, lost in her music and movement. I should announce myself—startling her would be cruel—but I can't seem to make myself interrupt.

She grabs the bowl—ice cream, I realize—and dances her way to the dining room where she's set up what looks like an art station. Papers and supplies are spread across the table, and a half-finished drawing sits in the center. She stands there, hip cocked to one side, still swaying gently as she studies her work and takes a spoonful of ice cream.

The motion of the spoon sliding between her lips, the way she unconsciously licks a drop from the corner of her mouth, the gentle rhythm of her body never quite stopping even as she concentrates on her art—it's the most innocently erotic thing I've ever witnessed.

I'm suddenly, painfully sober, every sense heightened and focused entirely on her. This is dangerous territory, and I know I should turn around, go upstairs, lock myself in my room until this madness passes. I'm drunk. She's nineteen.

Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, unable to look away.

And then she bends over the table, reaching for a pencil, her ass perfectly outlined in those thin cotton shorts, and something inside me snaps.

I'm moving before I can talk sense into myself, crossing the room in four long strides. She doesn't notice me—still lost in her music, her hips swaying slightly as she sketches. I stand directly behind her, close enough to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo, and let my fingers rake up her inner thighs.

She yelps, spinning around so fast she nearly loses her balance. Her back hits the table, her wide eyes locked on mine as she rips her headphones off. The sound of 90s hip-hop leaks from the headphones.

"You scared me," she gasps, one hand pressed to her chest, her breathing rapid.

"Sorry," I say, though I make no move to step back from her. Our bodies are inches apart, the heat between us palpable.

"How long have you been there?" Her voice trembles slightly.

"A while."

"Oh god." She groans, burying her face in her hands, embarrassment radiating from her.

"Look at me." My voice comes out deeper than I intended, rough around the edges.

She slowly lowers her hands, her green eyes meeting mine with a mixture of embarrassment and something darker, more primal. The alcohol in my system removes any filter I might normally have.

"Why did you put your virginity up for auction?" I bring my hand to the sliver of exposed skin at her stomach, letting my finger trace lazy patterns there. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm beneath my touch.

Her breathing becomes heavier, but she doesn't break eye contact. "Skye," I prompt when she doesn't answer.

"I needed money," she finally says, so quietly I almost miss it.

"What for?" I press, continuing my exploration of that strip of skin.

"Do you really care?" A flash of defiance crosses her face. "I don't want to talk about this." She places her hand on my chest and starts to push me away.

I grab her wrist, then the other one, pulling them both behind her back and holding them there with one hand. My other hand moves to her neck, fingers wrapping loosely around her throat.

"Answer me," I command.

She sucks in a sharp breath, and I don't miss how her nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. The guys were right—she might be into some of my darker tastes after all.

"My dad abandoned us," she confesses, her pulse racing beneath my fingers. "Mom is struggling with the bills. I need to help pay for my brother's special school and the rest of my college tuition."

I loosen my grip on her throat, sliding my hand down to brush my thumb over her nipple through her shirt. She whimpers, wiggling in my hold, the friction causing heat to pool low in my stomach.

"They'll give you the option to take the next highest bid," I tell her, watching her face carefully for her reaction. Her pupils are dilated, lips parted. "Are you going to take it?"

"Are you going to take it?" I repeat, my voice deepening with each syllable, the words hanging between us like a physical presence.

"They'll give me another option?" she asks, her voice breathless, uncertain, the innocent question making my blood run hotter.

I nod slowly, deliberately, watching the conflict dance across her features. She's transparent in the most enchanting way, every flicker of emotion visible in those wide, expressive eyes—fear, desire, confusion, need—all warring for dominance.

"I don't know. Maybe," she says, the words so quiet they barely disturb the air between us.