REBEL, a New Adult Romance Novel (The Rebel Series) (24 page)

“You’re crying,” he says.

“No, I’m not.”
 
My voice is wrecked.
 
I may not be actively crying right now, but thirty minutes or so of bawling my eyes out makes it kind of hard to hide the fact that I’m miserable.

He steps to the left and lifts up my legs.
 
I don’t have time to protest before he’s sitting on the end of the couch with my feet in his lap.
 
I’m too shocked to speak when he starts rubbing my toes.
 
The warmth of his touch zips up my legs and fills my whole body.
 
A tiny spark of happiness lights up the darkness that is my life.

“Emily died last year.”

“What?” I roll onto my back and try to see his face in the black-filled room.
 
I can barely make out his profile.

“My foster mom.
 
She died last year.
 
Cancer.”

“Oh.
 
I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Colin took it the worst.”

“Is that why they call him Trouble?
 
Did he go nuts over it?”
 
I want to know, because I’m strongly considering trying that myself.
 
Why not?
 
What have I got to lose? I’m sad that the best answer I can come up with is The Beast.
 
It’s the only thing of value I have in my life and it’s older than I am and not that far from the junkyard.

“He’s always been trouble, but that kind of pushed him over the edge, I guess.
 
She was the only mom any of us ever really had, but for him she was something else.
 
A guardian angel, maybe.
 
I think he felt abandoned all over again when she was gone.”

I’m struck not only by how many things he’s saying to me but also at how personal they are.
 
I want to capture this moment and put it in a bottle so it will never go stale, never disappear.
 
Knowing him, we’ll be back to single syllables tomorrow morning.

“I guess I kind of feel that way too,” I say. “Abandoned. Left behind.”
 
Admitting it makes me sadder than I was before.
 
I try to twist away onto my side, but his hands on my feet make it nearly impossible.
 
I only get partway there before I’m crying again.

I want to hide my breakdown, but I can’t.
 
The best I can do is throw my forearm over my face.
 
“Sorry,” I say through the tears, “I’m just a mess right now.
 
I’ll go …”
 
I sit up and pull my legs from his lap.

He says nothing as I stand.

I’m almost past him when I feel his grip on my wrist.
 
It’s not painful, but it’s also not weak.
 
He means something with this touch.

I can’t take the emotion I sense waiting for me there.
 
I’m barely holding back from bawling out loud like a giant baby.
 
Stepping once more away, I pull on my hand to release it from his grip.

The next thing I know, I’ve lost my balance.
 
I was expecting him to let me go, but instead he pulls me back firmly. The floor and ceiling trade places as I fall onto him and the couch.

“What are you doing?” I squeak out as I land sprawled out over his lap, my legs flying up into the air.

He shifts my weight so that I’m sitting fully on his lap.

“Don’t go,” he says.

I struggle to remain cool and unaffected.
 
“What are you, Santa Claus?
 
Let me go.”

“No.
 
I can’t let you go.”

A lump gets stuck in my throat.
 
I know he doesn’t mean the words like I want him to and it makes me desperately sad.
 
I should be happy about his efforts, but all they do is make me feel worse. Today is opposite day, I guess.

“Don’t cry,” he says.
 
His finger comes up and wipes a tear off my cheek.

I slap his hand away.
 
“Stop being so nice to me.”
 
I struggle to get up.

He wraps his arms around me, trapping my arms at my sides.

“What are you doing? Let go!”
 
I yank my body left and then right, trying to get free.
 
I’m not trying as hard as I could, though.
 
I know it and so does he.
 
I want someone to fight for me other than me, and I want that someone to be him.

“You really want me to do that?”

“Yes.” I say, my voice revealing my pout.

He leans in closer to my neck as he adjusts his position.
 
“You sure about that?” His whisper slides across my neck like a warm, silk ribbon.
 
It makes me shiver from head to toe.

I can’t answer.
 
My mouth opens, but no sound will come out.
 
There’s a lie on the tip of my tongue, ready to tell him that I don’t want him to ever touch me or ever care about me or ever give me a place to stay again.
 
But rather than lie, I choose to say nothing instead.
 
I feel almost brave over that silence.
 
I can almost appreciate Rebel’s style of saying as little as necessary.

He takes my non-answer as the answer it really is.
 
Lifting one hand from the cage he’s put me in, he places it against the side of my face, pushing me into his body.
 
“Put your head on my shoulder.
 
Just let me hold you for a little while.”

This surprises me.
 
The last thing I expected him to do is comfort me, but that’s exactly what happens. I lay my head down on his shoulder, my face turned into his neck. I’m sideways on his lap, my feet hanging off his legs and down near the floor.

I keep my hands in my lap as he adjusts us both until I’m snuggled up against him and feeling every inch of his lap, abs, and chest with one side of my body.
 
I can’t help but breathe out a long sigh.
 
This is the safest I’ve felt in a very long time, and the very first time I’ve felt that way with a guy who has his arms wrapped around me.

He’s rubbing my arm.
 
“I’m sorry you’re sad.”

“Me too,” I whisper in a trembling voice.
 
I’m on a cry-baby hair trigger right now.

“Do you miss him?
 
Your dad?”

“Yes and no.”
 
I don’t really want to talk about it.

“You’re not alone, Tea.
 
You’re not alone anymore, okay?”

My chest tightens all over again and silent tears come rushing out.
 
How could they
not
with a declaration like that?

When one tear drops onto his chest through his open jumpsuit, he moves his hand to the side of my head, using his thumb to wipe off my cheek.
 
“Don’t cry.
 
I’m here.”

It’s overwhelming.
 
Too much.
 
He’s amazing.
 
Gorgeous.
 
Smart.
 
Full of secrets and things I wish I knew. And he’s here in his apartment with me, taking care of me, caring about how I feel.

My arms have a mind of their own.
 
My right one goes behind his back and the left one clings to his chest and ribs.
 
I want to hold onto him until all of this goes away.
 
He’s like a giant anchor, and for the first time in a long time I feel like I’m not going to just fly away in a gust of wind.
 
My father’s only been dead for a week, but I’ve been alone for a lot longer than that.
 
I cling to him as we weather the storm together.

His hand moves to rub my back.

I snuggle in closer as it goes lower.
 
I cannot get enough of his body on mine, and I know he’s feeling the same way.

His breath is heavier and coming just a little bit faster.

I move my head until my face is touching his warm neck.
 
I can feel his pulse there. Comfort gives way easily to the heat that’s building between us.
 
Maybe he only means to be my savior, but I’m definitely thinking of him as more than that.
 
Or maybe I have a different kind of saving in mind.

He turns his head just the slightest bit.
 
I’m almost positive it’s an invitation.

My pulse is going like crazy and certain parts of my body start to tingle.
 
Before reacting, I consider my choices. I could get up and go into the bathroom and wait for him to get the hint and leave.
 
But I immediately recognize that idea as one that sucks eighteen thousand donkey dongs, so I abandon it faster than it came to mind.

My other choice is to feign ignorance and just keep it at the friendly cuddle level.
 
It’s not a totally horrible idea, but it’s also not going to ease the ache I’ve got for him.

The question is, do I want to risk what I have with him now, knowing that I could lose it altogether?
 
Should I be a grown-up and think of all the ramifications of the act before jumping right in?
 
Or should I say
fuck it
and totally go for it, worrying about the consequences later?

He puts his finger on my chin and puts just the tiniest bit of pressure there.
 
The invitation could not be more clear: Lift my head and we will kiss, dip my head and we will never speak of kissing again.

“Is it better to have a bird in the hand or two in the bush?” I whisper, pulling an age-old memory of my father lecturing me as a small child out of the recesses of my brain. He was always telling me to make sure I included all the facts in my decision-making process.
 
Taking risks was important to him, but always, always they had to be measured risks.

Rebel kisses my forehead.
 
His lips linger way longer than those giving a friendly kiss should.

He doesn’t answer my question with words, but it doesn’t matter because his kiss and my body’s reaction give me the response I need.

I’m on fire, and the yearning for his touch has built to the point that to deny it would be complete insanity.
 
Why am I trying to act like a perfect adult when I’m only twenty-two?
 
I can make mistakes and survive them, right?
 
Screw the bird in the hand.
 
Birds are stupid, anyway.

“Fuck it,” I whisper and lift my face to his.
 
I may lose everything by feeding the flame that’s been licking at me since the day I laid eyes on him, but I realize now that it doesn’t matter; being jobless and homeless will be worth getting a taste of the only guy who’s ever made me feel like a girl on fire.
 
Not kissing him would be like having a life but not living it.
 
For just one night, I’m going to do what feels good, regardless of the consequences.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AS SOON AS I LIFT my head and feel the rough scratch of his beard shadow on my lips, I know I’m in deep doo.
 
He’s hot and his body is huge and powerful. He’s way more man than I’ve ever been with or probably ever will be with again.

He shifts so both his arms are around me again, but now the one that was gently rubbing my back is on my ass, and he’s moving me into him by pressing his fingers against me.

Our lips meet.
 
This strong, silent man who barely lets any words go is putting his mouth on mine and his tongue is demanding that I let him in.
 
I’m already trembling with need and trepidation.
 
This is no fumbling college boy.
 
Rebel is a real man, and I know I’m in over my head.
 
But I don’t care.
 
I’m going to follow his lead and go wherever he takes me tonight.

The room is silent except for the sound of our clothes rustling, the couch creaking, and our breath mingling together.
 
I’m used to music drowning out the sounds of two people being intimate.
 
I don’t know why I ever did that before.

Hearing him breathe heavier as my hand slides across his chest is beyond thrilling.
 
When my fingers roam down below his waist and he groans, I feel like some kind of superhero sex goddess.
 
Me.
 
Teagan Cross.
 
I’m making Rebel moan at the slightest touch.
 
Right now I could fly if I wanted to.
 
I could jump off the top of this building and glide to the ground ten blocks away.

Holy shit, his dick is huge.

His hand is kneading my ass and it’s making crazy shivers move up through the center of me. My sweatshirt and flannel are suffocating.

We both stop for a moment as he reads my mind, and removes my sweatshirt and top.
 
I meant to only take off the outer layer, but here I am bare-chested.
 
The cool air of the apartment washes over my heated body and makes my nipples go hard.
 
I’m not embarrassed; it’s too warm in here and I’m too ready for us to be naked to care that he’s fully dressed and I’m only halfway so.

He slides his fingers up from my waist to my chest.
 
His hand is huge, covering my entire breast and then some.
 
I rush to kiss him again, afraid I’m going to moan over the simplest touch.
 
It’s crazy how he’s making me feel.
 
No guy has ever made this happen for me, ever.
 
Is it him or my grief that’s so quickly sending me over the edge?
 
I don’t care; I just want more of it.

I twist around and straddle him so we’re face to face.
 
He slides down a little on the couch so the hot center of me can rest on his hardness.
 
When he takes each of my hips in his two hands and pushes up into me while moving in a slow circle, I can’t help but grip his forearms and drop my head back a little.