Page 7 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
"Do you regret it?" His voice is husky, his eyes searching mine.
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. "No."
Kacen leans his forehead against mine, and for a moment, we breathe together. The sounds of the party fade into background noise, unimportant compared to the roaring in my ears.
"We should talk," he says.
I laugh softly. "Now you want to talk?"
"Better late than never?" He offers it like a question, uncertainty in every syllable.
“Okay, but not here,” I say, looking back toward the door, thankful no one is watching us.
“Kingston is out of town this week. Come back to my place?” he says.
I want to say no. Let’s go to mine, but everyone will see his truck there as they head into town. Not to mention if things go south, it will be much easier to leave his place than try to kick him out of mine. So, I agree.
We don’t speak as we leave the porch. Or crossing the parking lot, getting in our cars. I follow him home in silence. Not a word when he unlocks the door to Kingston’s cabin and lets me step in first.
Kingston's place feels cozy. Photos line the mantel—mostly of his family. I notice a few with the Mustang Mountain Riders mixed in.
"You want something to drink?" Kacen asks, shrugging off his jacket.
"No, thank you." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
I reach back to unfasten the fairy wings that are now uncomfortable, wincing as one of the wires catches in my hair.
"Here, let me help," he says.
I freeze as his fingers work gently at the tangled strands, careful not to pull. The proximity is almost unbearable—his breath warm against my neck, the slight tremor in his hands betraying that maybe he's not as confident as he seems.
"There," he murmurs as he lightly kisses my neck. I gasp softly, my body tensing at the unexpected touch of his lips against my skin. The wings slip from my fingers, forgotten as they flutter to the floor.
"Kacen," I whisper, his name both a warning and a question.
His hands settle on my waist, turning me slowly to face him. In the dim light of Kingston's cabin, his eyes are darker, hungrier than they were on the porch. I should step away. I should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I reach up and trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips.
"We were supposed to talk," I remind him, but my voice betrays me, husky and wanting.
"We will," he promises, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "But I've been thinking about kissing you again since the moment we stopped."
My heart hammers against my ribs as if it's trying to break free. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably," he agrees, and I can feel his smile against my palm. "Tell me to stop."
But I don't. I can't. Instead, I pull him to me, crushing my lips against his, pouring years of frustration and longing into a kiss that leaves us both breathless. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him as we stumble backward until my back hits the wall.
"I've thought about this," he confesses against my neck, his voice rough with desire. "More than I should admit."
"Shut up," I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair and tugging him back to my mouth. "Just shut up."
We're a tangle of limbs and want, his hands exploring the curves of my body while mine push his shirt up, desperate to feel skin on skin. When he lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me down the hall to what must be the guest bedroom.
He lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness, hovering above me with a question in his eyes.
"Are you sure?" he asks, and for a moment, the teenage boy I once knew shines through—uncertain, hopeful.
