𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐧 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 is far from perfect. Before starting her senior year of college, she's already guaranteed her position as the black sheep of her once prestigious family. To make matters worse, she took up bedding the rival family's eldest...
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𝑨 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆 of thoughts surfaced as Evelyn followed Michael's lead down a stone path. Their walk felt long, passing her by in flashes of jade green with touches of floral pinks and reds against the navy blue night sky. To keep from breaking down in the sob that aggressively jabbed at her chest, she decided to fixate on one of the thoughts her mind was racing with. The one that kept occurring to her was Michael's hands.
Her own hand, clammy despite the cool air, felt doll-sized being suffocated by his. Evelyn hardly ever held Jackie's hand, but she knew that Michael's were different. They were slim. His palm was soft, lengthy but too not broad. His nails were clean and had a healthy shine, unbitten. The long, nimble fingers that curled around hers had powerful tendons connected to each of them, an intricate pattern of veins weaved across.
Briefly remembering the strength of his hand holding her leg down against the seat, Evelyn wondered how excellent of a kickboxer he would make. He had the makings for it. A lean, nimble build. Broad shoulders. Big, powerful fists. If he just got a little stronger, he could really do damage. But he would never do that. He was too...
Gentle. That was the essence of his touch as his hand departed from hers to land on her back, not any heavier than a butterfly landing on the petals of a rose. His fingertips graced her spine lightly until she felt the full pressure of his palm draw her from her musings.
"What're you looking at?" he questioned softly.
Fully extracted from the reprieve of her tangent, Evelyn flicked her gaze up from her empty hand to look into his eyes, confused by herself.
Soon after, reality washed over her. They had stopped walking. Her skin was being jabbed with pins and needles of ice amid her numbness from the cold. Memories from dinner came closing around her in a claustrophobic circle of shame. Her heart, her lungs felt sore with every breath and beat. Then her vision blurred from the rush of tears. Evelyn thought she might faint. But she started to suffer what was a worse fate by her estimation.
Heat surged to her face as it involuntarily contorted. She tried to hold it in. God, she really tried—Michael was the last person she needed to be an audience to her pathetic blubbering. But the more she suppressed it, the harder her shoulders jerked and the more breathing felt like choking. She let out a whimper as the first dreaded round of weeping ripped its way through her chest. Just let me die was her final plea before she was fully conquered by awful, tearing sobs.
The weight behind her plea increased tenfold when she felt Michael's warmth immediately curl around her. Convulsing from the force of her crying, Evelyn couldn't find the strength or the mind to push him away. And his hands again. Gentle. One smoothed up and down the length of her arm while the other cupped the back of her head. She took generous handfuls of his shirt to steady herself on her feet as her sobs rocked her, and he pressed her closer against him, as if he wanted her to be against his chest.
