This must show on my face because his hand—still wrapped around my ankle—moves up my leg an inch, and he watches my reaction.
I try not to react because, hell, he can’t win. He can’t just be asshole Levi all day long and then climb into my bed at night and touch me wherever he pleases.
Ugh. Yes he can.
I part my lips and he slowly, slowly slides his warm hand up my calf and, holy hell, I could orgasm right here. I might, actually.
My calf.
My calf.
He’s touching my calf and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
His hand shifts again, and the only thought in my head is, Go higher, go higher.
Please, dear God, go higher.
24 Levi
I could do it. She wants me to do it. She wants me to do whatever I want.
And I want… so… much.
I look at her bare stomach and stare at the skin below her belly button.
I could kiss her there. I could keep my palm around her calf and bend it to her body and lie down between her legs and lick a trail along the very low waistline of her ridiculous shorts. I look up at her, see the desire in her eyes, and almost do it.
But then I see the end of her scar peeking out from the bottom of her shirt and it’s like a train hits me, crashing into me and shredding up my insides with hot metal and shards of split iron until I feel nothing but pain.
What the hell am I doing? This is Pixie.
Pixie.
I can’t ruin her life and then sleep with her. That would be fucked up on so many levels. I’m not an angel, but I know the difference between right and wrong, and sex with the girl I maimed and nearly killed would be wrong.
Probably smoking-ass hot.
But wrong, wrong, wrong.
I force my eyes to stay on the scar, the only thing powerful enough to put distance between us, and with a deep inhale, I close my eyes and lift away from Pixie’s bed. My body is in agony as I back away from her hot, open body.
She stays in the sinful position for a beat, then pulls herself up until she’s sitting cross-legged. She takes a deep breath, and the light from her window shines blue on her chest as it rises with air.
I clear my throat and overenunciate my words. “Can I please use your phone?”
She slowly stands up and straightens her shirt before looking up at me. “No.”
“Ugh.” I pull at my hair. “Why are you such a pain in the ass?”
She makes a face. “Why don’t you ever let me take a hot shower?”
I lean in. “If you want a hot shower, then shower at night.”
“I can’t shower at night. If I shower at night, then I’ll have to dry my hair at night, and if I dry my hair at night, then I’ll have to straighten my hair at night, and then I’ll have to sleep on my straightened hair, and when I sleep on my straightened hair, it gets all poofy.”
I blink at her.
“I don’t like it when my hair gets poofy!” She thrusts her hands out like I’m supposed to know poofy hair is a nighttime-shower-related problem. “Why don’t you shower at night?”
“Because I like pissing you off!” I raise my voice.
She raises her voice to match mine. “Why?”
“Because fighting doesn’t hurt!”
It’s the most honest thing either one of us has said to each other in nearly a year and it just hangs there, in the silence, like a gaping black hole.
Her lips part, and I see the fight drain from her expression.
No.
No, no.
Fight, dammit.
Lavender-scented body heat starts circling around me, tucking me into something lost and safe, making me feel wanted and worthy and all the other things I shouldn’t feel.
She’s all big eyes and fragile bones, with her pretty mouth tilted up as she scans my face and softly asks, “Does it hurt you to be around me?”
It hurts and it heals.
It aches and it comforts.
I swallow and quietly say, “Does it hurt you to be around me?”
Neither of us responds as we gaze at each other in the moonlight.
I step back from the sweet, warm haze Pixie just wrapped around me with her goddamn goodness and shake my head. Not saying anything, just shaking my head like an idiot, I leave her room.
25 Pixie
This morning the electricity has been magically turned back on, and I don’t care about my cold shower as water runs over my shoulders. I stare at the simple white wall in front of me, thinking about last night.
The anger. The hurt. The cruel wanting we can’t entertain against the backdrop of the thing we don’t talk about.
Just thinking.
I rinse the conditioner from my hair and turn off the shower.
When Charity died, it was like the friendship Levi and I had died too. Our bond just sort of disappeared.
At her funeral, every instinct in my soul wanted to run after him and find comfort in the arms of the boy who was my hero, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face the shame I’d feel in his presence.
I had been reckless with Charity. I’d been reckless with me. And because of my poor judgment, Levi had lost his sister.
I didn’t know how to face him, so I never did.
And now here I am, living next door to him and trying to ignore pretty much everything that comes up between us.
My scar. The ghost of Charity’s memory.
The magnetic heat that just magically appears whenever we’re near each other…
Yeah. Lots of ignoring going on.
I wrap a towel around my body and step into the hallway just as Levi steps out of his room. Our eyes meet, and at first it’s really uncomfortable.
Like, Oh crap. I was hoping to avoid you until the end of time.
And then it’s normal.
Like, Hello, old friend whom I grew up with and trust with my life.
And then it’s dangerous.
Like, Can I help you out of your towel and slip you into something more comfortable? Like my bed, perhaps?
The tension in the hallway is hot and foreboding as his gaze strays from my face to every other part of my tiny-toweled body. And I’m checking him out in all his white-T-shirt-worn-jeans hotness, and my thoughts are going no place pure.
I feel the heat in my cheeks as I stare at the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest and molds to his muscles and, just when my body’s getting too hot for a towel, his eyes snap to mine.