Chapter 12: Not Yet

Oz booked the room at a motel on Sandy Boulevard under his dead grandmother's name.

He handed us the key at nine that night and left in the van to sleep in his own bed.

"I am not asking," he said at the door. "I am a vault. Goodnight."

The room had one lamp, a bed, and a bathroom with a shower that ran hot as a promise.

Jonas shut the door behind us and leaned against it.

He had not said ten words since the van.

"Hey," I said.

He looked at me with eyes that were dark and strange and desperate.

"I need you to touch me," he said. "Please. I need to stop thinking."

I crossed the room and put both hands on his chest.

His heart hammered through his shirt.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. I've got you."

I was twenty-eight and he was thirty-one, and I had never wanted anyone like this.

He kissed me.

His good arm locked around my waist and lifted me.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and let him carry me into the bathroom with his mouth on my neck.

He turned on the water without letting go.

Steam climbed the mirror.

"Your cast," I said, laughing against his throat.

"I'll hold it out of the spray."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm hungry."

He set me on my feet under the water and stripped my shirt over my head.

My jeans followed, and my underwear, and then he stepped back and simply looked at me, soaked and shivering with wanting.

"Turn around," he said.

I turned.

I braced my palms on the cold tile.

He stepped in behind me, still half dressed, the wet cotton of his shirt clinging to my back.

His mouth found my shoulder and his hand slid around my hip, over my belly, between my thighs.

"Spread your legs for me."

I did.

His fingers stroked me, slick and sure.

I leaned my forehead against the wall and moaned.

"You're so wet," he said against my ear.

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