Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)
He doesn’t snicker or make a rude comment about how I’m desperate for his touch. He doesn’t make fun of me for the way I react to having a guy this close to me, and hopefully when he guides my hand to crank the machine, the moan that escapes my throat from the vibration between my legs is hidden by the roar of the four-wheeler.
“Just like this.” His hand over mine controls everything, and when we jolt forward, I lose those precious couple of inches I initially created between our bodies. This is its own special kind of hell.
His thighs line up beside mine, and as I stare down at the skin below my shorts, I find myself wishing he wasn’t wearing jeans. His arm is still around my waist, anchoring me to him and somehow making me feel safe, when moments ago I was sure my life was going to end in a matter of minutes.
He maneuvers us around the side of the barn, going slow until we cross through an opening at the south side of the property. We rumble over the cattle guard, but once we clear the fence, we take off like a shot.
The wind swirls around us, and belatedly I regret not tying my hair up. I can only imagine it’s hitting Zeke in the face and making it harder for him to steer, but I’m not brave enough to pull my hands from the handlebars long enough to get it under control, despite the fact that he’s the one controlling everything.
Fear spikes deep in my gut when he pulls his hand from mine, but it’s the absence of the one on my stomach that concerns me the most. After he gathers my dark brown hair in his fist, he shoves it down the back of my shirt before resting his chin on my shoulder and returning his arm around my stomach. Only this time his touch is lower, less under my ribs and more to the spot just below my belly button. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, swooping with each dip the four-wheeler makes on the rough terrain.
I’m grinning like a fool as he makes a wide circle on the property before turning us back around and shooting us toward the barn.
It’s over long before I want it to be, but I’d never speak those words out loud. We are back at the barn within minutes of us leaving, and I can’t help but feel cheated and disappointed.
“Feel better about it now?”
His voice is huskier than I’ve ever heard before, and even though he’s turned the four-wheeler off, I can still feel the vibrations in my lower half, making me curl my toes in my shoes. He hasn’t pulled his arm from around me nor his head from my shoulder. His breath skates over the strap of my tank top, cooling the warm skin of my exposed shoulder. He doesn’t move an inch, and I stare ahead unsure of how to act or what to say.
“Frankie?”
I swallow thickly, certain this is the first time he’s said my actual name out of earshot of Nan. City Girl is his go-to, and although alone it’s not very insulting, it’s his meaning behind it that makes me hate it.
“Hmm?” I finally manage.
“Do you think you can do it alone now? I technically have work to do.”
My jaw hinges, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water several times before I realize that no sound is coming out. I learned to talk at an early age. I’ve been doing it incessantly for a very long time, so why now am I unable to form words? I’m torn between lying and telling him I can’t do it alone, and knowing that if I do so, he’ll only find a way to use it against me another time.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I can do it alone.”
“You sure?” His arms pull back slightly, the tips of his fingers running circles on my lower stomach, revealing that he’s just as reluctant to pull away as I am to confess my ability to handle the four-wheeler. “You’re still shaking.”
There’s no way I can confess that the trembling taking over my body has everything to do with the way he’s touching me and nothing to do with the fear of riding by myself, but I have a feeling he’s well aware of what’s going on, just as I’m aware of him at my back.
I can’t control my reaction to his proximity, but it seems neither can he. Refusing to focus on the situation in his pants, I drop my hands to my thighs and look over my shoulder at him.
“You have work, remember?”
He nods as his arm falls away, and I give him as much privacy as I can as he climbs off from behind me and situates himself on his own four-wheeler. From the corner of my eye, I watch him adjust the front of his jeans, grimacing as if he’s in pain. Whatever truce we’d called is over the second his machine roars to life. He doesn’t even glance back at me to make sure I’m following him when he takes off.