Chase Me If You Can(26)
I recover myself once we’re at the car and lift a mocking brow like I can’t still feel the weight of his touch when he lets go. “Not in the mood to be tied up in her basement?”
He laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “Definitely not. Thanks for that. I—”
The click of heels on pavement precedes a cloud of perfume marching toward us, determination pinching the blonde’s mouth. She gives me another of those dismissive up-and-down glances before turning her attention firmly to Wes.
His eyes follow mine, narrowing as he lets out a sound somewhere between a growl and groan before snapping his attention back to me. I don’t understand the intensity of his stare or the way his gaze drops to my mouth until he says in a low voice, “In about two seconds I’m going to kiss you.”
I swallow hard, the sound of those damn heels louder than ever. He can’t be serious. Except he’s already leaning closer, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of my mind insisting this is a perfect chance to satisfy my curiosity.
Fuck it.
I’m prepared for a light peck when I nod my permission. What I get is Wes plunging his hand into my hair, his lips as soft as they are demanding. It’s the kind of kiss that arches my spine and nearly makes me drop my snacks, his mouth hot and insistent. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his persistent stubble now the start of a dark beard that lightly scratches my skin. He tastes like those candies he loves so much.
“Kiss me back,” Wes breathes out, too low for our approaching audience to overhear. That rough voice does things to me it has no business doing coming out of his mouth. I melt into him, and he meets me with a soft moan that has to be fake but heats my blood as if it’s as real as it sounds.
Then the madness starts all over again, my free hand clinging to his shirt. Because the thing is, as stunned as I am by this turn of events, Wes is really good at kissing. Confusingly good. This kiss should be awkward, but it’s so natural it might as well be a puzzle piece falling into place.
Then again, he’s probably had plenty of practice.
Wes keeps kissing me until the blonde walks off in a huff, and then he kisses me for a few seconds longer. When he finally lets go, he slides his hand down my spine to rest low on my back, his pinkie just grazing the swell of my ass, and offers a grin that’s not remotely apologetic.
I want to hate it. I want to be outraged that he just used me rather than tell the blonde off—but I don’t say a word. Not when my pulse is so loud it’s drowning out just about everything else.
“Breathe, Sloane,” Wes says softly. There’s a slight furrow between his brows as if he’s concerned, which is about as far as he can get from the smug satisfaction I expect. Surely he’s going to start gloating any second.
I swallow hard. “You kissed me.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, pink climbing his cheeks. “But, uh, thanks for the assist.”
“It’s fine. You’re welcome.” I sidestep out of his hold and remind myself that I don’t even like Wes. The pinch of rejection at his apology has everything to do with stress and a lack of sleep—and okay, the distinct lack of romantic affection that is my adult life—rather than any genuine attraction. “Let’s go catch a storm.”
And so begins an awkward drive east.
Wes checks in regularly with Matt and Tracy along with a bunch of other chasers I don’t know well, narrating the stream of texts. He knows damn near everyone who’s out here regularly. I’m more of a wave-across-the-parking-lot-at-familiar-faces-and-stick-to-my-small-circle person. At least the constant dings of his phone fill the stilted silence.
We’ve known each other for a decade, but my interactions with Wes have always been limited to semi-friendly ball busting while shooting the same location or killing time waiting on the weather. Occasionally drinks late at night in a bar with Tracy and Matt as a buffer. Spending six, eight, ten hours alone together—after that damn kiss, no less—is entirely new territory.
Wes keeps one eye on the radar and models while I drive, but we’re not relying solely on the data. He’s also cross-referencing with friends on the ground. By the time we get into position an hour and a half later, there’s a massive, picture-perfect mothership of a supercell looming above us.
I pull off to the side of the road, leaving plenty of space between us and the other chasers—friends of Wes’s—who are already standing along the fence line with their cameras pointed up at the sky. Tracy and Matt are here somewhere, but it’s crowded enough I don’t immediately spot them.
“Up for a friendly wager?” Wes waves his camera toward the storm and cocks a brow at me in challenge, an effortless return to his usual brand of teasing arrogance.
Clearly he isn’t going to give that kiss a second thought, so why should I? Taking a deep breath, I grab my camera. “Just how friendly are we talking?”
“How friendly do you want to be?” He offers a devilish grin, and I swear there’s innuendo there. But that’s Wes. He flirts with everyone. It doesn’t mean anything. Whether he kissed them only hours ago or not.
“Don’t be gross.”
“Dinner, Sloane,” Wes says with a snort of laughter. “We compare shots at the end of the day and decide who got the best frame. Loser buys dinner.”