Wild Reckless Page 23

My heart knows too, and it kicks—violently.

  “My grandpa said the music teacher for the old Woodstock elementary school brought it to him. But then the guy retired and left town, forgetting about it completely. I guess you wind it here,” Owen says, his hands gentle along mine as he twists the crank on the back until the small object begins to make the regular ticking sound it’s meant for, the sound sweet to my ears. “He said they don’t make metronomes like this anymore. One wind lasts about six hours, unless you hold the hand still to make it stop.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, moving my thumb gently along the sharp edges of the heavy metal. The small object is a dark iron, with small bumps along the edges showing its age. I push my finger against the hand to stop the ticking, then wind it again to listen to it begin, holding it up to my ear to hear the mechanisms move inside. My eyes find Owen’s while I listen.

  “You like it?” he asks, his bottom lip tucked under his top. I nod yes, keeping my eyes locked on his while the ticking sound fills my ear. My chest constricts with an overwhelming love for his gesture, and I stop the ticking once again, placing the metronome back in the tissue paper on the side of my bed, then lean forward on my knees and hold Owen’s face in between my hands.

  “I love it,” I say, the beating inside me so strong it feels as though my gift has been swallowed whole and has begun racing inside my chest. My hands hold still, my eyes on Owens, watching him look over my face, down to my mouth and back to my eyes more than once.

  “Happy birthday, Kensington,” he whispers, his lips grazing mine as he speaks. His next pass is more forceful, and when I feel his hands slide up my sides and around my back, I give in to my most basic urges, crawling over his lap until I’m straddling him and kissing him as hard as our lips will let us.

  His hands slide down my back until they’re cupping my butt, the thin cotton of my leggings no match for the heat of his grip. Owen sits tall, and I take his signal and reach down to lift his shirt from his body, pulling the two layers of long-sleeved shirts up and over him, revealing the smooth skin I memorized while watching him play basketball outside. Everything about him is warm—his shoulders, warm, his back, warm—his chest against mine, warm. I can feel him through the fabric of my sweatshirt, but want to feel him more.

  Without warning, Owen’s hands grip the back of my thighs, lifting me just enough to push me onto my back, and soon he’s above me, his knee pushed between my legs, touching me in a place I’ve never been touched. His kiss is rough and fast, yet somehow not hard enough. When his hands slide my arms up above my head, I let him guide them willingly, his kiss trailing down my neck until his lips stop at the collar of my sweatshirt. His hand trails from my arms, which I leave just as he left them over my head, and the further down my body his hand goes, the less I breathe.

  The look in his eyes when his head tilts up to gaze at me is aggressive, almost like an animal, and as much as my hands want to reach down and feel the softness of his hair, I keep them in place, instead watching the dark waves fall into his eyes as he lowers his head again, his hand slowly lifting the bottom of my sweatshirt up my belly.

  His lips leave small kisses over my stomach and rib cage as he slowly pulls my shirt up, revealing my skin. His thumb hooks my undershirt next, and soon I’m arching to help him lift both pieces of clothing completely up my body.

  I’m terrified that he’s seeing me. I’m excited that he’s seeing me. My breathing is hard, my lips barely parted as Owen’s hand slips the thin pink strap of my bra over my shoulder, kissing my skin where the tension of the strap left a small mark. He does the same on the other side, leaving my bra over my breasts just enough to cover my nipples, which are aching for him to expose them, to feel the cold air of my room.

  “You’re a virgin, right?” Owen says, his question surprising me, igniting a fire over my face and making me feel sick and fearful and wonderful all at once. His smile is soft, and he’s not making fun of me, but I’m somehow ashamed that I don’t know what to do, that I’m inexperienced.

  “I am. I’m sorry,” I say, and he lowers his head with a small laugh. When he lifts to look at me again, he lowers himself, resting the weight of his body on top of mine, the heat of his skin covering me, warming me completely, and all my breasts want is the feeling of his skin against them, no more barriers in between.

  “Kens, don’t apologize. It makes you beautiful. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t make any assumptions, to make sure I treat you…right,” he says, his lips kissing me softly, and then gliding down my chin and neck as he raises himself over me again. He pauses when his mouth is right between my breasts, resting his chin on the center clasp of my bra, and he looks up at me, waiting for me to tell him it’s okay to move forward.

  I nod slightly, biting my lip and closing my eyes, arching my back, wanting to press into him harder. Owen’s teeth grip the clasp in the center of my bra, and I don’t know if he’s torn it open or managed to unhook it, but I feel the lacey material begin to slide open, releasing the tension over my breasts, but keeping my nipples covered. The sensation of his tongue on the curve of my breast drives the arch in my back deeper, causing the material of my bra to completely fall to the sides. The cool rush of air on my nipples leaves them feeling hungrier somehow, and I look down, my eyes meeting Owen’s, his sexy smile paused right above one of the peaks. I watch as he leans down, his eyes on mine the entire time, his tongue reaching out and taking a taste of my body, the hardness of my nipple responding with shivers across my skin.

  Oh. My. God.

  Owen does it again, and the reaction within me is just the same. And when he lets his tongue lave completely over my breast, pulling the pink tip in between both lips, tugging gently with his teeth, I whimper.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” Owen whispers, blowing cool air over my breasts, which drives me wilder. “You…need to be quiet,” he smirks.

  He’s right. I do. But holy shit do I want to scream and beg and do things that just a minute or two ago I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Owen hands me my pillow, and I pull it over my forehead, then over my mouth when his lips find my breasts once again. I let myself have a faint moan, muffled by the cotton and feathers I’m pressing over my mouth, my teeth biting the fabric—until Owen reaches up and removes the pillow, replacing it with his mouth. His lips work mine, his tongue probing deep into my mouth, his teeth grazing my bottom lip, tugging and tasting while his hand cups my breasts. When his thumbs rub over the tips, I can feel the throbbing between my legs grow even stronger, and with every pass, my hips grow bolder, until finally, I roll them into his leg, welcoming the pressure of his thigh and knee.

  “You feel that, don’t you,” Owen whispers in my ear, his leg pushing into me once more.

  “Ye….yes…” I stutter, my heartbeat pumping in my stomach, racing with excitement.

  “You want me to touch you? There?” Owen asks as he lets his hand run softly down my stomach, down my abdomen, into the center of my legs until I feel his fingers graze over the fabric between my legs.

  I nod yes quickly, holding my breath. Owen runs his hand over my center again, this time with more pressure, and my center quivers in response. He does this a few more times until I’m unable to control the rolling of my hips, my body wanting more of him. Bringing his hand up my hip, he runs his palm flat against my tummy while his lips kiss me deep and hard. When he pulls his mouth away, he leaves his forehead against mine, taking a long, deep breath through his nose. He’s trying to be good, trying to restrain himself—and the good angel on my shoulder is thankful, the bad angel on the other side screaming for him to disobey.

  My eyes closed, I run my fingers down his arm until my hand is over his, then I push his fingers lower, until my hand and his both dip under the elastic band of my leggings and panties. Owen’s breath comes out fast and hard again, and I can feel the sensation of want in his fingers as they twitch and flex, begging to move faster. Once again, I pull his hand deeper, moving him a fraction of an inch at a time
, until I can tell he no longer needs me.

  I bring my hand back to his neck, opening my eyes to look into his, and the desire in them is intoxicating—and infectious. I pull him to me, kissing him hard as his hand travels the final inch it needs until his fingers have found my center, his hand plunging forward more, his finger reaching into me, penetrating me in a way that is both painful and amazing all at once. The burn is overcome with my desire the more he does it, until my hips begin to rock once again with the rhythm of his hand.

  “So fucking hot,” Owen breathes into my ear, his eyes hooded and his smile dark and sexy as he looks over my face. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Everything,” I whimper, my face falling to the side, my hand gripping the corner of the blanket to muffle my sounds as Owen leans down and pulls my nipple into his mouth, sucking it between his teeth to a painful, glorious peak again as his fingers rub over my center, teasing me again and again until plunging back inside. The pressure builds fast, and with every pass of his tongue on my breast and his finger through my core, the risk that I’m going to lose control grows stronger. I feel wet around him, and my hips are no longer able to control themselves, rocking into him, craving him, wanting more than his hand, until I fall over the edge completely.

  Owen’s other hand cups my mouth, muffling my cries while his eyes watch me, his smile cocky and proud as his right hand continues to work, his finger moving in and out of me until the waves of pleasure become bearable and finally stop. When he pulls his hand out from my pants, he lets his head rest on mine again, and just when I begin to feel embarrassed, he speaks.

  “That…was the single sexiest thing I’ve ever done,” he says, running his hand down my stomach and over the sensitive area between my legs again, cupping me hard, gripping me forcefully. “Only for me,” he says, looking at me possessively, his hand threatening to push me into orgasm again just by this single touch. I nod yes, my lips wanting to smile, but unable to gain control through the trembles I’m still feeling. Owen kisses me again, and I’m grateful for his touch, for the rescue from having to speak.

  I’m speechless.

  I’m in love.

  And I want to do that again.

  Chapter 16

  Nothing changed, yet everything changed. I caught sight of Owen when I drove myself to band practice Monday morning, and I blushed. I also felt my body warm just from looking at him.

  I felt like somehow Willow knew everything that we had done. She didn’t say anything, but I read something in her smirk—in the way she looked at me, her eyebrows raised—while she directed the morning practice session.

  I was the last one off the field for morning practice, lost in my own happy thoughts. The wheels from the xylophone were catching rocks, squealing as they dragged them over the concrete walkway.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ve done this before, haven’t we?” Owen says, his voice lifting me out of my daydream, only to put me in my real-life fantasy. He bends down and dislodges the small pebbles from the wheels of my xylophone and begins pushing it back to the band room for me.

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling as I look up at him, completely smitten. He kisses the top of my head in response.

  “Haaaaaa haaaaa, you a band geek now, Harper?” some guy bellows, his laugh that obnoxious kind that makes him sound drunk even though he’s completely sober. I think he’s sober?

  “Fuck off, Cruz,” Owen says, staring intensely at his friend, who backs down quickly. Owen is tall, and his body is broad, his muscles cut, but he’s not the biggest guy in our school. Yet, when he gives a certain look, one with warning, it’s unbelievably effective. His friend walks over with his hand out, reaching for Owen’s, and Owen makes him wait a few long, painful seconds before he reaches back, slapping hands and pulling the other guy in to bump chests.

  “This your chick?” the guy asks, nodding to me, his eyes flirtatious. I should probably be offended by being claimed and called someone’s chick, yet hearing it, and seeing Owen’s chest lift in response, makes me feel proud of being possessed—by him.

  “This is Kensi, and yes, she’s my chick,” Owen repeats.

  “Ahhh right. I feel ya, brother. Kensi, nice to meet you. You coming to our game tonight? You’ve gotta come see your man in action; he’s got skills,” Cruz says. I look to Owen as he puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs, forever modest. But he smiles, a smile that makes me think of last night, of his lips on me, his hands on me, and I blush right in front of his friend.

  “What time? I’d like to go,” I say, looking up at Owen again.

  “We play at six,” he says, his smile sliding into a pleased look that lets me know he’s happy I’m going.

  “Sweet. Party at Sasha’s after,” Cruz says, slapping hands with Owen once more before turning to walk back to the group of guys waiting by the outside stairwell.

  Owen starts pushing my instrument again, and I trail behind, now thinking about everything after Owen’s game—about going to that house again, about the things I saw other couples do there. Not just the sex, but the drugs and drinking. I also can’t help but remember how I felt the last time I was there—afraid and angry.

  “We can just go home after the game, you know?” Owen says, pausing when we reach the band-room door.

  “I know,” I say, my lip lodged between my teeth. I never say I don’t want to go, because there’s a part of me that wants to feel that rush again, of being somewhere that feels dangerous, and somewhere alone with Owen.

  He sighs deeply and smiles with tight lips, pulling me into his chest, the softness of his black hoodie like heaven against my cheek. I want to do nothing else but stay here for the rest of the day.

  Unfortunately, my reality slams into us—Willow opens the door, knocking into my xylophone and ending my hug-fest with Owen, my boyfriend. My. Boyfriend. Owen. I’m his chick. I let the silly grin and butterflies in my belly carry me through the rest of the morning, and I even let myself touch the piano a little during my independent study. I wouldn’t really call it playing, but it’s more than I’ve done in weeks.

  In English, Owen’s feet are in their rightful place on my chair again. I reach down and squeeze his ankles, threatening to trap them before he slides them away and I sit in my chair. His breath surprises me when I feel it against my neck, his hand sliding my hair out of the way so he can drop a quick round of tiny kisses on my neck and ear. His desk is propped forward on its front legs just so he can reach me.

  He backs away when he hears Mr. Chessman coming, pulling his pencil to his lips, chewing on the eraser, his other hand flipping the edges of his book. We’re wrapping up our discussion of Crime and Punishment today. Owen’s been anxious about it ever since the heated debate that sent him out of our classroom.

  “Owen, can you join me in the hall, for just a minute?” Mr. Chessman’s voice surprises us both. Owen looks him in the eyes for a few solid seconds, like he’s trying to read his mind, before leaning forward and dropping the pencil from his lips.

  I watch them both walk from the room, the door swinging open and closed behind them, then I turn my attention to Cal. His smug smile pisses me off, and he nods toward the door, saying something under his breath to the girl sitting next to him, who only giggles. I hate him for judging Owen.

  When Owen and Mr. Chessman return to class, there’s a long awkward silence, the class watching Owen—waiting for him to pack his things, to leave, or to have some type of reaction. But he doesn’t. He simply leans forward again, picking up his pencil, and flipping his book open to the final few chapters, pressing his thumb down the seam to hold his book open.

  Disappointed, most of the class turns back to the front, giving their focus over to our teacher. But I notice Owen’s hand, the one with the pencil, flexing and twisting and tapping the lead, letting the sharp point leave a red mark on the tip of his thumb. His face is low, his hair pushed forward, and I can tell this is one of those times, one of those moments when Owen wishes he could hide.

/>   I should turn around, give him his privacy, let him cool from whatever it is Mr. Chessman told him. But I can’t seem to make my arms, my legs, my shoulders work; I can’t leave him. Then, his gaze flicks up, and his eyes find mine, and there’s something at work behind them.

  Owen looks scared.

  I manage to catch him as he rushes out of the classroom, but when I ask him what’s wrong, he only bites his lip and tells me “Nothing, really.”

  But Owen is gone for the rest of the day, missing lunch, missing math, and not there again for science. I slip my phone from my pocket before the final bell of the day and send him another text, only to watch it go unanswered just like my previous six attempts.

  I’m racing out to my car when Ryan meets me in the parking lot, and I can tell by the face he’s wearing he has news about Owen.

  “Hey, Kens. Owen just called, wanted me to come find you, tell you not to worry,” Ryan says, his hands waving, his long legs making up quick distance until he’s standing at my car with me. “He’ll be back for our game, too. He said you should just wait here.”

  “Where is he? What happened, Ryan?” I ask, having no intention of not driving right to Owen—wherever he is. I open the passenger door and toss my backpack inside then move to the driver’s side, Ryan following me.

  “It’s James. He…he came home,” Ryan says, his head leaning to one side, expecting me to understand. But I don’t.

  “He…came…home?” I repeat.

  Ryan takes a small step back, letting his bag slide down his arm to the ground next to him. He pulls his hat from his head and runs his other hand through his hair, scratching at his head, his eyes squinting when he looks back at me.

  “He does this sometimes. Or, at least, he’s done this before. Something must have scared him, or he’s broke, or…whatever. He goes a few days without getting high, and then he starts to feel the hell of withdrawals, and then he comes home,” Ryan says, his arms slung heavily at his sides, his thumbs looped in his pockets.