Page 17 of Make Me Mean It

Standing here pretending to be fascinated by the contents of my dresser isn’t getting me any drier.

I hook my fingers into the neckline of my t-shirt and drag it upwards, more than ready to be rid of the cold, clingy thing.

It makes it halfway over my head before refusing to move another inch.

The soaked fabric sticks to my chest and twists around my ribs, catching beneath my arms when I pull harder. I tug again, only managing to trap myself, both arms stuck above my head with wet cotton covering half my face.

“Fuck.”

I yank at it again, harder this time, and it doesn’t move so much as an inch.

I twist, trying to free one arm, my foot catching awkwardly beneath me. My hip cracks against the edge of the dresser, pain shooting up through my side.

“Shit.”

Hands close around my waist, firm enough to stop me mid-twist, and my stomach jolts beneath them.

“Stop fidgeting,” Theo says behind me, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago.

“I can’t while you’re—”

I twist again, and his fingers press harder into my bare waist, holding me still before my hip can catch the dresser for the second time. The rest of the sentence sticks somewhere in my throat, every inch of skin beneath his hands impossible to ignore.

“Touching me.”

It comes out quieter than the rest.

His palms are warm. That’s the first problem. The second is that his hands span far too much of my waist, calloused fingers pressing into skin gone cold from the rain, and now that I’ve noticed them, I can’t seem to notice anything else.

“My touch that distracting for you?”

Of course that’s what he takes from it.

“More like repulsive.”

“You flatter me,” Theo hums absently.

His fingers leave my waist, and my stomach has barely unclenched before they catch the bottom of my shirt instead.

Theo works his fingers beneath the wet fabric where it’s plastered against my chest, peeling it carefully away from my skin. His knuckles skim my ribs on the way up, and every place they touch seems to register separately.

“Hold still for me,” Theo says, firmer now.

I do, my body going still beneath his hands with an ease that sends a strange little pulse through my stomach.

The shirt finally gives, sliding over my head and freeing my arms. I suck in a deep breath, blinking against the sudden light while cold air rushes over my bare skin.

With it gone, there’s nothing left to distract me from the hands still resting on my hips.

His fingers are curled against my skin, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of the hoodie I gave him, and my heart gives one hard, uneven thump.

“Stop touching me,” I grind out, pulling myself free.

Theo lets his hands fall. “Most people just say thank you.”

I grab the first dry t-shirt I find and drag it over my head, tugging the hem down over my stomach until bare skin disappears beneath the fabric.

“Most people,” I spit, “aren’t undressed against their will.”