Holding On To Heaven (Allendale Four 2)

Her cheeks flamed red and I wanted to kiss her so badly.

Instead, I moved just out of her line of vision and hopped up on the work table. I crossed my legs and placed the sketchbook on my lap. Choosing a stick of charcoal, I sketched an outline of the scene; the wall, the machine, Heaven standing in the foreground. The machine vibrated under her hands, making her hair shiver, and the only sound in the room was the whirring of the washer and the stroke of the charcoal.

After a while, the rhythm of the machine seemed to lull Heaven into a quiet trance and the moment shifted, charging with intimacy. It was different than any other we’d had. The rest of the campus was out and about on a Saturday night like they should be, but here we were, alone in the laundry room.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” I said suddenly.

“When was that?” Her neck craned but she forced herself to stay in position.

“Not as early as the others,” I admitted. “I mean, I remember you transferring in middle school, but you weren’t on my radar back then. I was mostly about food, sports, and video games back then. I don’t think we had any classes together and you were just this girl Anderson wouldn’t stop bitching about.”

She laughed.

“Jackson had his eye on you for years. He always had his eye on the hot girls. Oliver knew you from class. But I was out of the lo

op. Self-absorbed and not paying attention, until one day I only vaguely knew who you were and then all of a sudden you were just there. Occupying way more mental real estate than I knew existed.”

“What got your attention? The thigh-high boots or the school-girl plaid skirt?”

I laughed. She knew me well. I never paid her a bit of attention until she amped up her slutty clothing game. Not because I was into sluts, but there something about her—about her attitude, her style. I couldn’t look away. Just like right now.

That was the thing about Heaven—the most normal moments became tense and filled with desire. The grasp of control I had when it came to her was wearing thin.

I wanted Heaven so badly. I wanted every part of her, but I wasn’t a gentleman like Anderson. Or kind and careful like Oliver. I wasn’t even a horny bastard like Jackson who could smile and make everyone feel special.

I was filled with testosterone, aggression, and pure passion. I worked, played, and loved hard, and I’d held back for so long that I didn’t know what would happen if I allowed myself to cross the line.

I waited a beat—two, telling myself to keep away—maintaining my distance. This was not the time and definitely not the place. Heaven stood frozen against that machine, her tits bouncing slightly with the vibration of the machine. I could handle it. I was handling it until she tilted her head in my direction and licked those pink, puffy lips and there was no doubt in my mind it was an invitation.

And I was out of fucks to give.

Every. Damn. One.

19

I heard him slide off the table and walk over. I didn’t move an inch. “It was that fucking skirt,” he said. “That day in the garden. I knew Oliver and the others had plans to protect you from those douchebags at school. I was down for that, but that day when you came out in the courtyard, red-cheeked and upset. Damnit. I knew right then what all the fuss was about.”

He stood behind me, hand lightly grazing my back. I inhaled, consumed with his closeness, his towering height. He touched my hair, pushing it aside to expose my neck. His lips blazed hot on my neck, under my jaw. His fingers tugged at the back of my shirt, moving to my arms and lighting a fire across my skin. The pads of his fingers danced over the scars and my belly filled with desperate want.

“So you liked my skirt?” I asked, too aware we were in a semi-public place.

“Hell yes. It was all short and barely skimming your perfect, tantalizing ass.” His hands wandered down to my leggings, cupping the curve of my butt. “And those pigtails and that tight, white shirt. School-boy fantasy, babe.”

I swallowed. “What other kinds of fantasies do you have?”

He grew still, fingers still teasing my backside. He bent and kissed my shoulder, ignoring my question.

Touching the edge of the washer, I moved to turn, but he held me in position, his hips pressing into my backside. He was hard and the mere thought, feeling, of it created a flurry of excitement in my lower belly. I blinked, looking at the wall in front of me, at the poster explaining how to call maintenance if there was a problem, and remembered that day. If that day turned him on, it wasn’t just the clothes, it was being outside—alone—but also in public. Like now.

I eased back, feeling him behind me, and his teeth scraped along my collar bone. “Is this what you want? How you want it?”

He grunted. “The guys would kill me.”

They still had hang-ups. Each one of them were terrified they’d break me or offend me or treat me wrong. The reverse was true. I was having to break them down one at a time. “The guys aren’t here. This is between you and me. Our relationship. Our rules.”

He still wasn’t convinced. I felt the hesitation tremble in his body. I lifted a hand back behind my head, touching his hair and neck. I leaned into him and he wrapped his strong arms around my stomach.

“I know you think it’s easy,” he said quietly, “But we promised one another we’d always treat you right, take care of you and respect you.” He ran his nose down the column of my neck. “The things I want to do to you…they are definitely not how you treat someone you love.”