I tell her about those first few days after Levi's arrest. All the drug tests. Being questioned by the police, questioned by Coach. I don't tell her how it reminded me of when my brother was arrested. How the police searched our granny's house and found the stuff he stole. How I got taken in, too, because he'd given some of the stuff to me without telling me where it came from. Fuck, thinking about that shit used to feel like it was a different world I left behind. Now it feels too damn close. Like I walked right back into that world without even realizing my feet were moving.

Levi was supposed to be different. He was rich, smart, had a good family, but he ended up the same as the guys I grew up with, same as I would have ended up without football. I guess I understand better now why we worked so well as friends. Granny always said like sticks with like.

"You had no idea?" Dylan asks, switching to my other hand.

"I mean . . . he smoked on occasion, for sure. But I had no idea how far into it he was. That he was selling, too."

"So how did you end up fighting tonight?"

"Because I'm a fucking idiot." My tone is a little too hard. I'm still agitated about the whole situation, and that fight wasn't enough to clear the tension out of my blood.

"You're not."

"I am. I shouldn't have even gone to see him."

"Yeah, well. We all do stupid things sometimes."

Her brows crease, and I know she's worrying about her own stuff now.

"That's another thing we have different definitions of. Helping people doesn't seem that stupid to me."

"If only it were that simple."

"So why'd you get arrested? You could have backed off, yeah?"

"I should have. I don't know why I didn't. Except that . . . it felt right." Her eyes lift to mine on those last words, her thumb gently rubbing over my sore knuckles, and damn if that doesn't feel right, too. "Even as I was doing it, I knew the consequences. But I just didn't care. I wanted to do something, not because it was what I was supposed to do, but because it was what I wanted to do."

I think I get it then. That decision I saw in her eyes back in the kitchen. That's what this, what I'm about for her, too. I'm just another part of whatever rebellion she started earlier today. About doing what she wants, not what's expected of her.

"We're not talking about me, though," she says. "So you went to meet your friend, and then what happened?"

She keeps her eyes down as she picks up the gauze and begins winding it snugly around the knuckles of one hand, and then the other.

"He said the wrong thing."

"Which was?"

"Dylan." Now it's her that's pushing too hard. I didn't want to talk about things with my friends, and I won't talk about them with her, either, no matter how gorgeous she is.

"I'll guess. You were mad about what he did, and he wasn't sorry."

"This isn't middle school, Pickle. He didn't hurt my feelings. He said some shit he had no business saying, and it pissed me off. The end."

"But you don't think some of that anger stems from what you feel is a betrayal of your friendship?"

She finishes taping down the last of the gauze, but doesn't let go of my hand.

"I think you're analyzing me again. Making things more complicated than they are."

"And I think you're just a guy who doesn't like to admit he has feelings." She drags out the word, teasing me with some goofy smile on her face. I turn my hand over so I can clutch her wrist. I curl my other bandaged hand around her waist and pull her closer.

"I feel plenty of things."

The teasing stops. She swallows.

"I wasn't talking about that kind of feeling."

With her standing and me sitting, I'm eye level with her chest. I see the sharp rise and fall as she sucks in a breath. I want her in my lap again, straddling me this time.

"Doesn't mean we can't talk about that kind of feeling. Or experiment with it."

"Is that Stella girl an ex?"

I cough, surprised. My throat twists uncomfortably, and it takes me a couple of solid breaths to get a hold on myself.

"Ah, no. Stella and I have never dated."

"Have you-"

"Do you ever run out of questions?"

"Not ever." She turns playful again, and I'm done doing this the careful way. If she wants a rebellion, I'll be the one to give it to her. I want her against me, and I'm tired of waiting.

I pull her forward, insinuating my knees between hers, and her body naturally follows, settling across my thighs. Her lips part, but she catches herself before she gasps this time. I keep her steady with my hands at her waist and say, "I'll make you a deal. A question for a kiss."

Tentatively, she lays her palms against my shoulders. They rest there, her grip light and casual. She ponders my offer for a moment, and it drives me mad that she can do that while our hips are inches away from alignment.

"Okay then. Are you-"

I cut her off. "Not so fast, Dylan Brenner. I've already answered one question. We've got to settle up first."

I wrap her braid around my hand like I've been waiting to do all night, and I use it to pull her head back just enough that I can crush my mouth against hers.

Chapter 7.

Dylan I'm going to shatter into a thousand pieces from the intensity of this kiss alone. His hand is on my cheek, turning my head, and it's so big that I feel like I'm completely at his mercy. In fact, he kisses me like he wants to own me. Not even that . . . he kisses me like he already does own me.

I want to feel put off by that. I want to feel disturbed by his dominance.

But I'm not.

I like that he wants me that much, that he kisses me hard enough to bruise, that he's holding on to my braid like a lifeline. I like that he doesn't handle me like a breakable, naive little girl. The Brenners adopted me-their pretty little well-behaved orphan girl. Henry cherished me, kept me as a pretty little doll that would one day be his pretty little wife. Until one day that apparently wasn't good enough. Maybe I didn't play my part like I was supposed to.

Either way, I'm beginning to learn that I don't want to be a pretty little anything.

What I do want to be . . . I don't know. But I know that it needs to be something I want. Not what I think other people want me to be.

He tugs a little harder on my hair, pulling me back from my thoughts, and I gasp into his mouth. I bite down on his bottom lip in response, not because I've ever done anything like that, but because it seems like the thing to do. He groans, sliding a hand down my backside. So, I guess that means it was okay. He squeezes, lifts me forward and against him so that I can feel his hard length press right against the juncture of my thighs.

To quote Matt-Holy shit.

He keeps kissing me, his tongue sweeping past mine again and again, and it feels like a race to the finish line. Like if I can touch him enough, taste him enough, I'll reach a point where I'm so saturated by him that . . . that something. I don't even know what will happen then, but I know I want it. I dig my nails into his shoulders, and he groans into my mouth in response.

One of his hand slips down the waistband of my shorts, under the band of my underwear, and his fingers grip the curve of my behind. It's so mind-numbingly erotic that I lose pace on our kiss, overwhelmed just trying to catalog all that I'm feeling.

I pull back, struggling to breathe.

"That was more than just a kiss."

He shrugs, his smile downright devilish.

"Just another difference in definition."

His lips drift back toward mine, but I place a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Time for another question."

"Go ahead," he says, but he doesn't shift his grip on my ass; instead he tightens it and turns his attention to my neck. His teeth skate along my skin first, raising goose bumps in their wake. Then I feel the heat of his open mouth, the flick of his tongue, his hum of pleasure.

"When we, ah, um . . ."

Words. Letters together in patterns. Focus on the words, Dylan.

"Is there anything between you and Stella?"

His teeth nip at my collarbone and I jolt on his lap. He drops his head into the hollow of my neck and groans. His panting breath is hot against my skin. He uses the hand on my backside to mimic the surprised movement I'd just made, his hips rocking with mine this time, and he groans again, deep and low.

"Didn't you already ask me that question?"

"I asked if she was your ex, not the same thing as asking if there's anything between you at all."

He circles my hips over his, and oh God it feels so good, better than such a simple motion should. But between his erection and both our zippers, the friction is killing me.

"We hooked up once last year, but we're just friends."

I know that answer should make me pause, should make me ask more questions, but his mouth has left my neck to explore my shoulder, and his free hand has found its way beneath my top, beneath the spaghetti strap shirt I'm wearing in lieu of a bra. He makes a noise of approval low in his throat when he discovers that fact, and his thumb draws circles around my nipple, teasing me with an almost touch for a few seconds before squeezing the tip between his thumb and forefinger.

I throw my head back, feeling relaxed and tense all at the same time. I want more, so much more, but I'm afraid to ask, so I bite my lip, arch my body, and grind against him, hoping that he can read what I want in my actions.

More. More please.

His lips return to mine, and all of a sudden, I have one of those weird out-of-body experiences where I'm not sure if this is even real. Being dumped by Henry. Getting arrested. Going to a party with a total stranger. Following my impulses without any concern for the consequences. This is not my life. This is not me.

The way his kiss feels . . . it's too good. The way kissing feels in a dream, like the complete sum of everything I want and need, and he's risen from my subconscious to give me the perfect fantasy. His touch is electric in a way that has to be my imagination because skin doesn't react like that, doesn't spark and heat and burn that hot. He has to be my subconscious reacting to the mess with Henry because he's the complete opposite of the guy I'd spent the last four years of my life with.

Henry was a plan, a future, 2.5 kids, and a backyard. Henry is everything I should want.

Silas is this moment only. A quick burst of adrenaline. The physical manifestation of want with no regard to logic or reason.

Silas is . . .

Oh God. Silas is touching me. Really touching me. My shorts are unzipped, and his hand is inside my panties, and one finger slides against my sensitive flesh.

Shit. Not out of my body anymore. I am firmly in my skin, and burning up.

"What happened to my bossy girl?" Silas says, and I don't think I can even form words to respond.

I just knot my hands behind his neck because I don't trust myself to hold on to his shoulders anymore for balance.

"No more questions?" he teases. "I thought you never run out of questions."

Oh, I had questions, but I no longer cared about the answers. I no longer cared about anything except what his hands were going to do next.

"I have a question for you then."

Just the tip of his finger dips inside me, and the heel of his hand is so close to where I'm dying for his touch.

"Do you want my fingers inside you?"

I swallow, wishing for another one of those out-of-body experiences. Because now I know this is real. It's too intense to be anything else, and I know he's going to make me answer. And I'm not sure if I like this kind of thing. It scares me how much I want to answer him anyway, how much I need him to keep going.

The heel of his hand grinds against my center just for a moment, and when he pulls back I cry out at the loss.

"Do you want me inside you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper, "Y-Yes."

His cheek slides against mine, and I shiver at the scrape of his stubble. His voice is a rumble in my ear. "One or two?"

"W-What?"

He slides one finger in, only to pull it all the way out. His teeth graze my earlobe and he asks again, "One or two?"

Please don't make me. I can't- He pushes two inside, and it's just enough to ease the ache and simultaneously multiply it. It's just enough in every way. "Two," I answer before he can take them away again. "I want two."

His palm presses up into me as a reward, and I move against it, seeking more friction.

"Fuck, yes," he growls, stealing my lips for a quick, hard kiss.

"Take what you want, Dylan. Ride my hand."