Page 102 of Off the Grid

It takes a second for what he’s implying to sink in. “No. God. What? I’m not a virgin.”

The irony in that entire statement. Sex—that I didn’t consent to—is why I’m in this position in the first place. I’ve got past what was done to me but am still trying to understand how the body I was left with feels about being touched.

“Then what is it?” He looks at me with an intensity that almost makes me want to tell him.

“It’s . . . does it matter why?”

He chuckles, and I swear to God it’s the sound of a feather tickling over my skin.

His nearness.

His fresh-from-the-shower scent.

The feel of his hands on my arms.

The warmth of his breath on my lips.

“If you’re planning on using me as your fuckboy, then yes, Camilla, it does matter.”

Nerves own my every move. My every thought. My every reaction.

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” I whisper.

“I do.”

“What?” Tears burn in the backs of my eyes. Why did I do this? Why didn’t I lose my nerve and walk into my flat and lock myself in? This was a grave mistake. One I fear I won’t live down.

It’s such a weird dichotomy. Wanting him to touch me and knowing he’s probably laughing at me in his head right now. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull a dare card out to put me in my place and scare me off again.”

“No. I’m going to tell you that you made a slight miscalculation.”

“About?”

“There are two things I want, Cami. The one you mentioned—keeping a ride in F1—but I can do that myself.”

“The other?”

My nerves skitter through every part of me. I need to leave. I can’t—

“Camilla. Look at me.” He waits for my eyes to flutter up to his, and the serious expression in his eyes shocks me. “You. You’re the other thing I want.”

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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Camilla

Me?

And before I can properly process the thought, Riggs’s lips are on mine. One hand skates up my spine and fists in my hair while the other moves to the small of my back and tugs me against him.

You. You’re the other thing I want.

The sensations make their appearances. The ache. The sweet burn. The tightened nipples. The wetness pooling between my thighs.

“There are rules,” I blurt out, nerves getting the better of me as I push my hands against his chest.

What if I don’t feel anything?