Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

real and so loud and sweet, it claws with a sharp need low in my gut. "And he brought me here. Right to you. Define fucking irony."

She pulls her hand away.

I take it back again.

"Maybe it's fate or something."

This is an unbelievably bad idea. She hops down off the railing and she's immediately fitted against me, right where she belongs, right where I want her.

Her eyebrows raise up high and her smile is forced. "You believe in fate? Or something?"

"You make me believe in a lot of things I never thought I would."

This is crazy talk. This is the result of too many nights thinking about her and not getting any sleep, too many days imagining I see her right around every corner, and too many attempts to deny how much I want her.

Now she's right in my arms for a second time, and I realize I'm not going to get a third chance to make this right. I have to make a decision.

Evan 6

Winchester Youngblood doesn't want me.

He didn't call me all week.

He didn't come by and try to see me.

No Facebook messages, pigeons with notes tied to their little pink claws, pebbles clattering against my windowpane.

But when I wind up at his party with another guy, he's suddenly ready to be my gallant defender. It's all cheekbones and soft blue eyes and that accent I still can't place that fills my ears up and blocks every other sound out, like the full spill of ocean water when you jump in the waves too fast, too deep.

"This isn't a good idea," says me, Queen of Colossally Stupid Ideas.

I know the exact determination of how bad it is by how incredibly good it feels. When his hands coast just a hair of an inch away from my skin, I arch into them.

And I want more.

"We're not exactly known for our good ideas," he says, his voice low, his lips hovering just above my lips, and I want them to commit.

Commit to every hot, sweet thing I know we both want, no matter how stupid it is to want it all.

His mouth hits its target and his lips drags along my neck so slowly, it makes me shiver with naked desire for him. He opens his mouth, and the wet press of his tongue makes me jump.

"You weren't even interested in me," I argue, unclouding my stupid thoughts and hauling him a few inches away.

"That's ridiculous."

He talks like he's some blue-face-painted warrior used to commanding legions. This is the same voice he used when he told a few dozen drunk debauched party-goers to get the hell out of his house, and every single one of them listened and scurried away.

I twirl out of his arms and grab onto the railing, digging my fingernails into the wood so I can anchor myself.

"It's not ridiculous at all. Actually, it makes total sense. You can't just have me now, because you decided you want me when I'm here and available."

Clouds slipped over the moon while he was turning me into a pool of Jello, so it's too dark to see much on the beach, but I search for anything else to fix my eyes on anyway.

Winch's body mirrors mine, and he wraps one arm around my waist.

"It's getting cold. Come on inside, we can talk. I swear to God, all we'll do is talk."

He's the path lined with wildflowers, and I'm Red Riding Hood. I've been warned, but I just can't resist the blossom and perfume that calls me over.

The party-silent house creaks and groans in the wind that picks up and rattles the windows, and I nearly trip over a couple of glasses, knocked on their sides, as I follow him through the labyrinth. When I bend to right them, Winch tugs at my hand and shakes his head.

"We have a cleaning staff. You don't need to do that."

Nothing about Winch screamed "money" when I first met him, not the way everything about my ex Rabin did. Rabin was all ego and polish and pampered can't-lift-a-finger-to-help-himself syndrome. But Winch doesn't just have money; Winch has control. He's used to being in power.

What does he do?

What does his family do?

He steps surely and quietly along the bleached hardwood floors, past the living room full of leather chairs and cathedral ceilings, past a granite and stainless steel kitchen, down a long hall lined with brilliant modernist prints, to a series of doors. He slides a key out of his pocket and slips it into a lock, then throws open the door on a room that feels like it's all windows facing the crashing ocean waves and a bed.

A big, soft, inviting bed.

There must be other things in this room, but, despite my mind's very sensible protests, all I can think about is lying down on that bed with Winch and forgetting everything that happened -- or didn't happen -- this past week.

He leans his long frame in the doorway and his eyes follow me as I walk around the room, his mouth tight. "You want a drink?"

"Sure."

My feet manage to move me to the bed, and I sink onto the mattress, suddenly surrounded by the mingling smells of detergent and clover and pure, hot Winch. I hear him put the key in another door, and the low rumble of his voice, then another guy's, I assume his brother's, hits my ears, though I can't make out a single word. I hear him click the door shut, then I hear the sound of glasses clinking, the refrigerator opening, and his returning footsteps.

He comes in, two glasses in hand, and gives me one before he takes a seat in the chair across from me. I'm attempting to position my dress so he doesn't see my underwear and balance the glass he handed me, all the while wishing I'd taken the chair.

And wishing twice as hard that he'd chosen to join me on the bed.

I take a long chug, and my tongue recoils in shock at the