“Why, though?” His tone is off.

“I told her to tell you I was on my way, and I’m just wondering why she didn’t.”

“Oh.” He looks away, reaching for a cup on the dresser. This whole conversation is so awkward—Steph not telling him that I was on my way, him avoiding my eyes.

“I’m going out there. You can join us if you want.”

“I will. I’m just going to change.”

I nod and turn the door handle.

“What about your dad, though? He just came back into your life, and you’re going to leave?” His words stop me in my tracks. It’s not like I hadn’t thought about it before, but Hardin lobbing that question at me like a missile when my back is turned doesn’t sit right with me.

I take a moment to recover before leaving the room. When I get to the living room, my father is asleep again. Binge drinking at noon must be exhausting. I turn off the television and head to the kitchen for some water. Hardin’s words about leaving so soon after seeing my father again keep replaying in my mind. But the thing is, I can’t put my future on hold for a father whom I haven’t seen for nine years. If the circumstances were different I would consider rethinking this, but he’s the one who left me.

When I get back to the bedroom door, I hear Hardin’s voice speaking from inside.

“What the fuck was that shit today?” he says, his voice muffled.

I press my ear to the door. I should just walk in, but I get the feeling I’m not supposed to hear the conversation. Which means I really should hear the conversation.

“I don’t give a fuck, it shouldn’t have happened. Now she’s all upset and shit, and you’re supposed to . . .” I can’t make out the rest of the sentence.

“Don’t fuck this up,” he snaps.

Who is he talking to? And what are they supposed to be doing? Is it Steph? Or, worse, Molly?

I hear his footsteps approaching the door, and I quickly scoot into the bathroom and close the door.

Moments later, knuckles tap against the wood. “Tessa?”

I open the door. I know I must appear flustered. My heart is pounding against my rib cage, and my stomach is in a knot. “Oh, hey. Was just finishing up in here,” I say, but my voice too small.

Hardin cocks an eyebrow at me. “Okay . . .” He looks down the hall. “Where’s your dad? Is he asleep?”

“Uh, yup,” I say, which makes him grin wide.

“Well, c’mon back to the bedroom, then,” he says and takes my hand in his, turning and pulling me gently.

As I follow Hardin back into the bedroom, paranoia begins to seep into my thoughts like a familiar friend.

chapter

sixteen

TESSA

The microscopic section of my mind that holds a place for common sense is attempting to send warning signals to the rest of my brain, the space held by Hardin and all things Hardin. The sensible side—what’s left of it, anyway—is telling me that I need to ask questions, that I can’t just brush this off. I do that too much as it is.

That’s the microscopic section. The larger section wins. Because, do I really want to cause a fight with him or accuse him of something that I might just be misunderstanding? He could have just been angry at Steph for inviting Molly along to lunch earlier. I couldn’t hear all that well, and he might have been sticking up for me. He was just so forthcoming about having lied about being expelled—why would he be lying to me now?

Hardin sits back on the bed, grabbing my hands in his, pulling me over to sit on his leg. “Well, we’ve exhausted all the serious topics, and your dad’s asleep. I guess we’ll have to find another way to occupy ourselves . . .” His grin is ridiculous yet infectious.

“Is sex all you think about?” I reply and push his chest playfully.

He lies back on the bed, one hand across the small of my back and one behind my thigh, pulling me on top of him. I straddle him, my thighs on either side of his, and he pulls me down so that our faces are nearly touching.

“No, I think of other things, too. For example, I think of those lips open around me . . .” He brushes his lips against mine. I can taste the hint of mint on his breath when he kisses me; the pressure is hard enough to send a wave of electricity through me, but gentle enough to leave me wanting more.

“I think of my face buried between your legs while you—” he starts to say, but I reach up and cover his mouth with my hand. The way his tongue playfully darts out to lick my palm causes me to pull away quickly.

“Eww.” I crinkle my nose and wipe my wet palm on his black shirt.

“I’ll be quiet,” he softly says, lifting his hips from the mattress to press himself against me. “That’s more than you can say, of course.”

“My father . . .” I remind him, with much less conviction this time.

“Who gives a fuck? This is our place, and if he doesn’t like it, he can leave.”

I give him a semiserious look. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not, but I want you, and I should be able to have you whenever I want to,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“I have a say in this, too; it’s my body you’re talking about.” I pretend like my heart isn’t pounding and I don’t have that familiar ache for him.

“Obviously, yes. But I know that if I do this . . .” He reaches his hand down between our bodies and under the waistband of my pants and panties. “See, I knew you’d be ready when I started talking about eating . . .”

I press my lips against his to silence his dirty mouth, and he swallows the gasps he’s causing me to make as his fingers graze over my clit. He’s barely touching me, deliberately trying to torture me.

“Pleasssse,” I hiss, and he applies more pressure, pushing a slick finger inside of me.

“Thought so,” he taunts and pumps his finger slowly.

All too soon he stops his motion and moves me to lie beside him. Before I can complain, he sits up and grips the top of my pants, the pair he seems to be so infatuated with, and pulls them roughly down my thighs. I lift my hips to assist him, and then he works off my panties, too.

Without speaking, he gestures for me to move up toward the top of the bed. I push myself back using my elbows and rest my back against the headboard. He lies on his stomach in front of me, hooking both arms around my thighs, opening them.

He smirks. “At least try to be quiet.”

I begin to roll my eyes, but then his warm breath hits me—soft at first, then increasing in pressure when he gets closer. Without warning, his tongue slides across me, and I reach over and grab a decorative pillow, the yellow one that Hardin calls hideous on a regular basis. I cover my face with it, using it to muffle the involuntary sounds falling from my lips as his tongue moves faster and faster.

Abruptly, the pillow is ripped away from my face. “No, baby, watch me,” Hardin instructs, and I nod slowly. He brings one thumb to his lips, and his tongue glides over me. Moving his hand back between my thighs, he hits my most sensitive spot. My legs tighten—his touch feels heavenly against my clit, his finger moving in slow circles with just the lightest touch of the tip of his finger torturing me.

Obeying his command, I gaze down at him between my thighs, his hair messy and pushed back, standing in a wave above his forehead, a lone lock falling down only to be pushed back again when he dips his head down. Half seeing, half imagining his mouth moving against me increases the sensation drastically, and I know, I just know, I won’t be able to stay quiet as the slow buildup of my release begins. With one hand covering my mouth and one buried in his curls, I being shifting my hips to meet his tongue. It just feels too good.

I tug at his hair and feel him moan against me, sending me closer and closer . . .