Page 15 of The Worst Kind of Promise
As attracted as I am to Kit, it’s weird how my body—which has been conditioned to flee or fight whenever in a sexual situation—feels no danger in his presence. Getting intimate with another person has been hard for me given my past, and every time I allow myself to indulge in my fantasies, I always come away feeling shame and guilt. Sometimes I can’t even get my body to cooperate with my mind. I view every pursuer as someone capable of hurting me, so I close myself off, never letting anyone get close enough.
But Kit’s bypassed all my fortifications. Heavily defended fortifications, at that. And now he’s in the heart of my kingdom, and I don’t think he’s planning on leaving any time soon.
“Got it,” he announces with a lopsided simper, quickly shoving his hand back in his lap.
Still slightly shocked, any articulate sentences wane on my tongue. “Thanks.” My heart’s pounding like crazy, and if I was hooked up to a hospital monitor right now, that little zig-zag line would be zigzagging all over the place.
Kit stacks his empty plates and wads his napkin up. “So, we need to stop by your place and get your things, and then we can head out. I told the guys we would be on our way soon.”
The guys. Right. The secret. One wrong move, and this entire summer blows up in my face.
I stare down at a little lake of syrup. “I don’t have much to bring with me. Just the essentials. I don’t want to take time out of your day—”
“Hey, there is no rush. I want to do this, okay? I want to be here with you.”
Believing that someone genuinely wants to spend time with me is hard. I’ve always felt like a responsibility to Hayes. I just imagine how much better his life would’ve been if he didn’t have to look after me. He could’ve been a teenager. He could’ve gone to parties and dances and done fun and stupid things. But instead, he spent his weekends at home, making me dinner and helping me with homework. I can’t help but feel like I’m just a responsibility for Kit too…oneIburdened him with.
Kit’s brownie batter eyes drink me in, every hard line of his features softening. “You’re getting in your head,” he says.
I violently shake my head, as if that will somehow fling me out of my depressing mindscape. “I’m sorr—”
“And you need to stop apologizing.” His tone is growly, brooking no room for argument, and I can feel the bass vibrate all the way in my bones.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve always felt the need to apologize. You know, as a woman in society.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you need to around me,” Kit says quietly, and suddenly, it’s like the whole café has been submerged underwater, chatter warbled and images distorted, with me and Kit in our own pocket of air. Crisp. Untainted. Something entirely our own.
“How do you always know just what to say?” I ask, and I don’t think I’m fully aware that the question took on a life form of its own.
A gulp ripples down Kit’s throat. “I don’t. When I’m around you, I usually can’t find the courage to say anything. You…intimidate me.”
Iintimidatehim? Is he on crack? Kit—six foot five, who has never cried at a Disney movie in his life and is covered head to toe in tattoos—is intimidated by me, Faye, five foot five, who cries whenever she sees roadkill and has never done anything permanent to her body?
The math doesn’t add up.
I frown, wishing human emotions could easily be decoded through some universal equation. They can’t. Trust me, I’ve tried.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Kit shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing makes sense when it comes to you.”
His admission has my insides turning over. His words—tender as a bruise and just as lasting—echo in the cavern of my mind, and I bark out a fake laugh.
“Yeah, I can be a lot to handle,” I murmur under my breath.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but I have two hands. Big hands. Hands big enough to handle a sweet little thing like you.” As if to prove his point, Kit crosses his arms on the table, the large hand in question resting against the crook of his elbow.
And now that I’m aware of how big his hands are, I can’t stop thinking about them acquainting themselves with every curve and dip of my body. Our kiss alone awakened the feral animal inside of me, and now it’s doing everything in its power to claw itself free.
I crinkle my nose. “I’m not that sweet,” I huff.
“Princess, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.” Something heady falls into Kit’s eyes, darkening them, and there’s an imperceptible tic of his jaw.
Princess? That’s new…and I don’tentirelyhate it. If I was called that by any other guy, it’d be an instant turnoff for me. But when Kit calls me that, it does unspeakable things to my ovaries. Things that I feel like I should only admit in confession.
I pray that my blush isn’t that noticeable, but considering the lights wash me out, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was as red as a cherry tomato.
Kit roughs his hair with his hand, the faintest groan catching in his throat. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous when you blush,” he says.
