Honeytrap (17 page)

After last night, I thought we were someplace else with each other. But with this one smooth move, he'd shown me that he was ready to resume the games—and he wanted Lana to come out and play.

He wasn't far behind me, catching the gate and sliding through before it chopped closed behind him.

“Shelby . . .”

“To you, I'm Lana. Evidently.”

“Hey . . .”

He caught me, bringing me against the wall next to a garden hose spigot. My sandals sank into the grass-lined dirt, my back against the flat stone facade. His body was pasted against mine as he gripped my wrists, and I looked up at him, my eyes wide.

Could he see how anxious I was? Because he backed away slightly, still keeping a hold on me.

“Dammit,” he said, his voice gritty, “even after just a few hours, I can't stay away from you.”

How could he have flipped this switch so fast? Last night seemed like a different Micah.

“You can say it,” I told him. “You can't stay away from Lana, and last night was a part of all your games. You heard about her even before I got to town, and she's the one you've got up against a wall right now. Is she the one you wanted to be with at the lake, too?”

He shook his head. “Maybe I do wonder about you . . . her . . . sometimes. Maybe I'd like to know how far she is under your skin . . .”

“But you didn't try to bring her out at the lake when you had a chance because we'd actually started to treat each other like human beings and put all the bullshit behind us? Whatever.”

He didn't let me go, but I wasn't exactly struggling. There was something about how his breath was coming faster, how mine was, too.

Finally, he sighed roughly. “You're right. And when I got home, I sent that e-mail, mostly as a tease, an inside joke. I wasn't thinking.”

But from the intense blaze of his gaze, he
was
thinking—of her. For once, he wasn't being honest with me, and that was confusing. He'd put last night behind us like it'd only been a smokescreen for this—his pursuit of Lana, not me.

Not me at all.

I swallowed. “I'm not her.”

But from the way my center was going moist, stiff, and achy for him, it was getting harder to distance myself from Lana.

And she's brought you nothing but trouble
, I thought. Unfortunately, trouble of the worst kind was right in front of me, bringing his fingers to my cheek, tracing down my skin and making me slide down the wall an inch.

“You're the most complicated woman I've ever met,” Micah said in a ragged whisper. “You don't even seem to realize what you do to me.
I
do the most idiotic things around you.”

But I did realize how I affected him, because as he leaned closer to me, pressing against my body, I felt every inch of it.

Which part of me was he looking at now—Shelby or Lana?

Both?

I wanted him so much that it didn't seem to matter, and when he slowly leaned down to kiss me—hard and soft, deep and long—I threw every bit of myself into it, digging my fingers into his hair, wanting all of him.

Knowing that I couldn't have it . . . no, shouldn't have it.

But there I was, sneaking my other hand under his T-shirt, smoothing my fingertips up his side, over his ribs until he sucked in a harsh breath. I ran my tongue into his mouth, and he responded, catching it, taking us into a kiss so erotic and sinful that I groaned.

He was groaning, too, but was it from the bruise near his mouth? Or was it me who was doing this to him?

Little old me?

I'd obviously pushed him into dangerous territory by making him chase me to the side yard, because he seemed ravenous for me, yanking at my Angel's Seat T-shirt until it stretched, pulling it over my head, my hair trailing out of it just before he threw it down and worked at the buttons on my shorts.

This was going fast. Too fast?

All I could do was clutch at his arms, my gaze wandering to the high fence that blocked us from the windows of the McClusky's house next door.

No one home. All alone.

So slowly that it was agonizing, he locked gazes with me. He looked fierce with his blackened eye, the bruise to the far side of his lip, his hair half-loose from his ponytail, strands covering one eye. He slipped his fingers into the opening of my shorts, dipping into them, making me part my legs as he touched me in a place that'd been wanting it so badly.

Oh . . .

“You're so ready for me,” he said. “You've always been ready, haven't you?”

I couldn't form words, only mewling sounds as he stroked me. I moved with every motion, his eyes on mine, my heart expanding.

I felt swollen, sensitive, and with every rub, I slid down that wall a little lower. I hardly realized it when I was on my back in the grass, Micah crouched over me, his hand still in my shorts.

And when he swept a finger into my panties, into
me
, I lifted my hips, turning my head away and stifling a groan.

“Look at me,” he said. “Dammit, Shelby, don't be shy.”

Something in his voice . . . a change in tone . . .

But I couldn't think about that because this was too much—him going in and out, the slick sound of my desire the only thing I could hear besides my heartbeat and heavy breathing. As if he was determined to get my attention—to get me to do what he wanted instead of the other way around—he pulled down one bra strap, exposing my breast.

He'd seen me bared to him before, but it was like the first time all over again as his gaze went hot.

He coaxed a thumb over my nipple, circling it as he kept massaging my most sensitive spot below.

Lana had called it a pussy when she'd seduced Rex.

“So beautiful,” Micah murmured. “My God, Shelby, how could you think I don't want
you
?”

I'd never been sure how I looked to a guy—Rex had never seemed to pause enough to comment. And Lana . . . Well, Lana was a figment. But I felt her stretch in me as Micah bent down to kiss my nipple, to lick it, to suck it into his mouth while he began to press on my clit with his thumb. I moved my hips, pressure piling in me like messages stacked on top of one another, swaying piles of words and promises that'd never amounted to anything but embarrassment and anguish until now. My center constricted, like someone was pulling at those piles, making them a rope and twisting it so that I'd never be able to untangle myself if Micah kept on like this, kissing, touching, circling.

He worked at me while my belly pulled and pulled until—

With a sharp, almost shocked gasp, I bucked, the rope inside me snapping, whipping its ends against me, tickling me with shreds of frayed blasts.

The whole time, Micah watched me, never stopping his hands as he brought me down gently, even when I was done.

He used one hand to put my bra back in place, covering me, but the other one stayed in my panties, his fingers still between my folds, just like he owned me in that small way.

And he had owned me.

God help me, but I wanted him to do it again, to take me over and bring me wherever he wanted as whoever he wanted. I was ready to be Lana or Shelby for him. I was ready to be his in every way, my emotions and hormones overriding everything that'd always kept me in line.

But I recognized what wanting him was all about—neediness.

If he saw the confusion in my eyes, he didn't say anything. His tanned skin flushed on his cheeks, like he'd enjoyed seeing me come as much as I'd enjoyed doing it. He smiled in spite of any pain his bruises brought him.

“House call completed,” he said.

This one time, I didn't even mind his confidence. I let it seep into my skin, just like it was finding its way into me, too.

The next couple of days were filled with the same kind of cat-chase-mouse games with Micah.

Cat comes prowling around pool house at night, mouse gives him kisses and only a bit more than that while holding back, even as she wants hotter and heavier . . .

Cat “just happens” to drop by the DQ while mouse enjoys a burger with her best friend. Mouse gives him a look that tells him he can come by the pool house again that night. Cat then stalks the table like he wants to announce to everyone in town that mouse is playing a game with him, but then he silently leaves with a promising glimmer in his eyes . . .

Cat slips inside the pool house after mouse gets home from work, and the chase goes on . . .

The whole while, I felt like I was dancing on the head of a pin, balancing what I wanted and what I shouldn't want, nearly falling off every time I saw Micah. He was really working that woman voodoo on me, and I was quickly discovering that I wasn't so immune to it after all.

I'd rushed things with Rex, and that had even been under much more normal circumstances. Giving over all of myself to Micah and his reputation seemed
too
daredevil-y. There was too much of the summer left to risk getting caught with him and making myself the ultimate Aidan Falls pariah, and that's why I kept running from him, even if I was getting dangerously close to surrendering.

When he told me to bring my pickup over to his place on his day off so he could work on it, I thought this would be like all the days that'd come before—him pursuing, me keeping just a few pulse-stomping steps ahead of him. But he'd bought the part he needed for fixing the Ford, and he sounded serious about doing me a favor, even though the twins were at the repair shop and Lucille had taken her little sister and the baby to an old rodeo friend's house. We'd be as alone as alone could be.

Still, I told myself Micah didn't have anything up his sleeve and that he was going to work on my truck's PVC, and that would be that.

I'd been keeping really busy these past couple of days, stopping by the Ritz to give Mr. Carmichael tips on how to spruce up his web presence as well as acquainting myself with Mom's computer invoice files, but I chiseled out this particular afternoon just to go to Micah's. Mom had told me to take the night off, too, so I could do more work on those invoices without having to bus tables and work the culinary section of the café.

When I arrived in the pickup, Micah waved me into the car shed, and I parked next to the farm truck, its hood open and parts spread around as if the vehicle were undergoing an autopsy. He ambled outside, turning the corner and disappearing from the shed, not saying anything, obviously just expecting me to follow him.

Like the naïve dork I was, I hopped out of my truck and walked outside and—

A spray of water attacked me, and I squeaked, jumping back. Mouth agape, I looked down at my wet, white-flowered blouse and then my dripping cut-off jeans and legs.

“What the hell, Micah!”

He chuckled evilly from his spot near the shed's wall as he lightly gripped the hose. He looked completely devilish with that healing black eye and the bruise that had lightened up near his mouth. “It's hot out. Thought you could use a cool-off.”

He was right—summer had blazed full force today—but a dousing? Really?

“You just want me in a wet top,” I said. “Well, what do you know? I've got a bra on, so no nip for you!”

As I heard the water hiss again, I ran back inside the shed.

His voice was a lazy drawl outside. “You shouldn't have put that picture in my head because now you're not the only one who needs coolin' off.”

When the sound of spraying water didn't stop, I suddenly imagined Micah standing under the hose, his hair sopping, his T-shirt stuck to all those tanned muscles like a second, sheer skin, revealing pecs and abs . . .

Jeez, I needed to look.

Creeping to the entrance, I peeked around the door, which was a big mistake; he blasted me with the water again and I dodged back inside.

“Nice!” I yelled.

“Don't you feel better, though?”

“About what? Having a reason to karate chop you?”

“Aw, come on, Shelby. Doesn't a good splash make you want to get those wet clothes off?”

And the motive was revealed.

I stepped out from behind the wall, shaking the water off my arms. He'd aimed mostly for my torso, the perv.

“Is
everything
ultimately about sex with you?” I asked.

“I can't help my testosterone.”

He was as water-steeped and sexy as I'd pictured him, his skin glistening under the sun, his T-shirt showing every ridge, every hard curve. My heart pitty-patted as my gaze met his.

I saw what I always saw: heated hunger.
All you have to say is yes, Shelby . . .

But there was something else there that I'd been noticing more and more lately. It was as if that black eye of his and the bruise near his mouth weren't the only wounds on him—his gaze held one, too.

He nonchalantly dropped the hose. “Would you be surprised to know that maybe everything isn't about sex?”

This wasn't a conversation we were supposed to be having. Players wanted sex and only that. But he'd been circling this subject these past couple of nights, tightening his way around it like he was pulling a string on a different kind of trap than he was known for.

“Stop messing around,” I said, making light of his comment. “We're not even having sex.”

“Well, I don't know how you define sex, but I'd say we've been doing something close.” He grinned, yet the wounds were still there. “But I know you're not the type to bang a guy you won't even be seen in public with.”

Things had just gone from the frying pan to the fire. “Micah . . .”

He laughed slightly, like he'd only been testing me by bringing all this up. “Listen, I know what would happen if anyone knew we were . . . together lately. You'd get hell for it from everybody, especially your mom.”

He'd said we were “together,” and I didn't correct him. Because weren't we?

How else could I explain our relationship when he came to my room after I'd get off from work and then he left before Mom and the girls got home? And didn't boyfriends fix their girlfriends' cars and lay with them on blankets under the moon?

Were
we . . . gulp . . . dating?

I kicked at a rock on the ground with my sandal. He pushed back his wet hair, and for the first time ever, he seemed . . . nervous?

Then he sighed. “All I'm saying is that I go insane whenever I'm not with you, and when I am, I'm even more of a lunatic. I've never . . .”

As he stopped, I filled in the blanks.
Felt this way about a girl?

He watched me, maybe thinking he shouldn't complete that sentence. I had to agree, because what he'd already said was scaring me.

What was I doing? A secret summer fling, like Evie had said, would've been okay. All the little roars that'd been raging in me whenever Micah touched me or even
looked
at me
had
turned out to be good medicine. But something more serious than that?

A violent ripple tore through me.

Too fast
, I thought.
Not possible
. I wasn't one of Micah's cars to soup up and drive at 100 miles per hour, only to crash it into a ditch. Because that's what was bound to happen with us—a huge, public, everyone-told-me-so crash.

But I couldn't deny what I was feeling anymore. In a head-spinning, whirlwind amount of time, I'd lowered my defenses and yearned to be with him whenever I wasn't, just like he said about me. And when I was with him, it was getting to the point where I wanted to have more than I was giving. One of these days or nights, I wouldn't be able to stick to my guns.

So what the hell should I do about him?

“Micah,” I said, testing him out, too. “The other night, you told me that I'd be gone soon. That I'd leave Aidan Falls behind.” My belly hitched, and not in a good way. “What happened to that?”

“That's all still true.” He yanked the hose toward him, starting to wrap it up, using his arm as a spool. He'd faced away from me as if the subject really bothered him. “Fuck it. Never mind about all this. I wouldn't want to be seen with me, either.”

I took a step toward him. “Don't say that. First of all, it isn't—”

“True?” He tried that cocky grin on me again, and I almost bought it. “Darlin', I have a certain blunt tendency to be all about the truth, remember?”

“Does it bother you that I'll be leaving?”

As he continued spooling the hose, he followed it to the spigot, moving away from me, creating distance. Then he paused. “In my adult life, I've never wanted anyone to stay as much as you.”

His voice became sawed apart, bleeding.

Everything crashed together in me then—a blinding need I couldn't put aside, a longing that was always threatening to destroy me whenever we were together.

I couldn't stand to watch
him
go anywhere, not even a short ways, and I rushed to him, entangling myself with his arm and part of the hose, as if even
that
wanted to pull us together.

Without saying a word, he held me to him, his T-shirt wet against my cheek, the sound of water dripping to the ground.

“Shelby,” he said with a tortured whisper. “How did you wrap me up so bad?”

An all-consuming warmth flooded me, because he wasn't talking about the hose. And that warmth was so forceful, so powerful, that it nearly washed out the little voice in the back of my head.

What if he's still playing you? Isn't this how he'd work the game? Wouldn't there be a lot of sweet talk and loving moments before you get manhandled and betrayed again? Wouldn't he want you to push your comfort zone and do things like go out in public with him so he can start offering proof that he won you over?

I pushed all of that out of my head, because that was hurt talking—the remnants of my break up with Rex. But some of it stayed, floating around like vague whispers that scratched me from the inside out.

Micah stroked my back with his free hand. “So what're we gonna do, Angel?”

Do what Evie told you, which was to have a summer fling and then move on.

“I don't know,” I said.

He ran his hand over my hair, and we stood like that for a while, the summer heating up around us, the cicadas getting restless and loud. I really didn't know what to do. My heart was telling me one thing, but everything that lived outside of Micah's orbit told me another. Problem was, I wasn't sure if I could pull myself out of his reach anymore.

I wanted. I needed.

As he held me, I said one last thing. “I know how you must feel. I wouldn't want to be kept secret, either.”

As secret as Lana Peyton had been before she'd had
her
coming-out party?

Neither of us seemed to have a solution as our clothes stayed wet in the humidity, a damp barrier between us as he pressed me to him, making me think that he wasn't tricking me or playing me, that he wanted more out of me than I'd ever predicted.

Eventually, he kissed me on top of my head, then pulled back with a wink, tossing the hose near the spigot and cruising back into the shed. “Can't stand here getting blue balls with you all day. I've got a job to do for my girl.”

His girl.

As he started to work on my pickup, I dawdled outside, feeling what it was like to be Micah Wyatt's girl, my heartbeat speeding up as I thought of what everyone else would think when they found out.

Don't be an idiot
, a whisper said, weaving through the breeze.
You're making a huge mistake . . .

While he worked on the truck, I pulled my phone and earbuds out of my purse in the pickup, then sank to the ground, leaning back against a wall, listening to music and watching him work.

My guy.

I sighed, goose bumps ruffling up and down my skin as I imagined slow dances with Micah at parties, imagining how we wouldn't give a shit if everyone stared and muttered to one another about how I really wasn't the person they'd always thought I was.

His girl.

***

The afternoon flew by. I put together a ham sandwich and chips from his kitchen, walking out with the plate and lemonade as he checked over the pickup. I listened to an audiobook about ancient Rome, just for kicks, while thinking about how good Micah was at what he did, seeing his triceps flex as he used a wrench or wiped down the area around the hood.

During one of these daydream moments, it took me a second to realize that he was walking away from my truck, wiping his hands on a rag while staring out the shed opening. I took the earbuds out, hearing the sound of a car grumbling up the drive.

Micah stopped at the entrance, a look of pure, contained anger on his face as he held up a hand to me.

“Stay in here, Shelby.”

I didn't argue, especially not with that expression he was wearing. And even then, I already had a bad feeling.

Micah tossed the rag to the ground and disappeared out the front. I didn't exactly stay put, but I moved to the entrance, peering around the wall just as I'd done before getting hit with water earlier.

A mint-green compact car had come to a stop twenty feet away from Micah. I caught a glimpse of a man behind the wheel, his window open, allowing the breeze to puff back his thinned dark blond hair that was receding to the middle of his head. He was a ragged and older carbon copy of Micah.

With a charming smile, his dad gave a jaunty, twitchy wave.

I retreated into the shadows, but I found a crack in the shed wall that gave me a splintered view. My head felt like it was in a vise, squeezed together and tightening my vision as Micah walked toward the car, his arms curved at his sides, although his hands weren't fisted.