Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

He takes his sweet time guiding me in front of him. His other hand cups my other hip and lights my body on total fire. Every cell is singed with heat and sensation overload.

I’ll never be the same after this.

“Let’s roll with it, then,” he whispers.

That line, those five little words are enough to make me remember what else I wanted to talk to him about.

“Penn,” I say as his lips find mine.

All. Thoughts. Cease.

He jerks me forward so there’s nothing between us but the clothes on our bodies. His fingers skim the skin beneath the hem of my shirt, leaving a trail of electricity behind. My nipples bead against the pressure of his chest tight against them.

The hardness of his body is a glorious juxtaposition of the gentleness of his lips, and I think I might die in this moment, in this house, and in his arms.

His palms drag against the sides of my body, skin on skin. His hands are rough from holding lumber all day but handle me with such care that my legs go weak.

I run my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to me. He tastes sweet, like soda, and smells like everything I’ve ever wanted.

I’m here for this. Checklist be damned. To hell with my internal voice and the bruises from people who didn’t deserve my time.

This is where I want to be.

“Penn,” I whisper as our kiss breaks.

He kisses across the side of my face, along my jaw, and behind my ear. I angle my body to try to get some contact with my clit because I think I might explode.

His hair slips through my fingers as I close my eyes and feel him kissing along my shoulder. Cool air wraps around my body as my shirt is caught in his arm and pulled toward my shoulder.

I’m ready to volunteer to remove it altogether when he pulls away.

His eyes are wild, his breath as uneven as mine. He steps back and looks at me like he’s just seeing me for the first time.

My heart races, adrenaline filling my body as I take in the bewildered look on his face.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, and I have no idea what it is.

I tug my shirt back down. “What’s going on?”

He runs his hands over his head, a look of confusion painted across his gorgeous face.

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I fight the bile that’s threatening to come up my throat.

My mind is on overdrive, re-creating the last few seconds and trying to figure out where things went wrong. But there’s nothing I can come up with, and he’s not answering me.

“Penn?”

“Um, you have some paint on your face,” he says. He tugs at his hair before dropping his hands to his sides. “I have to meet Matt in a couple of minutes. I forgot. Can I call you later?”

“Yeah,” I say, making the word into a three-syllable answer. “Sure.”

He nods and heads toward the door.

I follow in a state of pure confusion. There are so many questions popping into my head as my brain turns back on—so many that I don’t know where to start.

Rejection begins to take over as he swings the door open like he’s dismissing me. It’s as if he got what he wanted, or discovered he really didn’t want it to start with, and is just clicking the off button.

Fuck that.

He swings the door open. “I’ll call you.”

I nod, untrusting of my voice or the feeling of pressure on the bridge of my nose. I won’t cry. Not in front of him.

He stands still as I walk out. I don’t bother to look up at him or tell him not to call. He won’t. I’m not sure I want him to right now, anyway.

Climbing into the car, I catch the door to the house closing in my peripheral vision. His overt lie about Matt ripples through my brain, and a dose of humiliation washes over me.

I realize I’m not going to make it to Harper’s.

Tears stream down my face as I look at the closed door with confusion.

“Guess I couldn’t look at you that way, but you can me, huh?”

With tears trickling onto my shirt, I back out onto the street and head home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PENN

W hat. The. Actual. Fuck?

The engine roars as I hammer it up Matt’s road. I didn’t call ahead to warn him I’m coming—or to warn him I’m coming with this kind of attitude. He won’t be pleased, but neither am I at the moment.

There has to be some logical explanation for the pair of dice on Avery’s side. I’m not good at logic or math, but Matt is. I just need to calm down and wait for him to give me the odds and prove that Avery Perry is not Abby.