“Cool.”
He runs his hands down his thighs, and this is all so antithetical to his usual stillness that I unconsciously mirror his fidgeting. I wonder if his palms are sweaty like mine, and if they are, if it’s because he’s nervous, too. Probably just worried about what Emory will say to him if he finds out. No, what Emory will do to him. Shit. Emory can never find out.
While I’m caught in a mental whirlwind, Reyn has stepped forward, closing the gap between us. I look up and see the angle of his jaw, the faint line of stubble dark against his chin. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, head tilted down.
I nod, because my words are not working right now.
He stills for a heartbeat, looking down into my face, and reaches up to his ballcap. He spins it around on his head, and I feel another one of those grand stomach-dips. He’s doing that so it won’t bump my forehead. Because we’re going to be that close. Kissing.
I wet my lips, and since the bill of his cap is no longer in the way, I can see when his eyes dart to the motion. He inches forward, tip of his toes bumping into mine. He seems a little unsure, mostly about what to do with his hands, which is not normal. Reyn never seems unsure, especially with his hands. They’re always touching, stealing, catching or throwing. He finally places one on my hip, holding me in place.
I feel it like a brand.
He meets my gaze. “This is just to make sure you don’t end up kissing a jackoff like George by mistake, okay?”
My voice is thin. “Okay.”
He reaches up to sweep my hair away from my temple, and his hand trails down
the side of my face. His lips are dark pink, a little chapped, but soft-looking. I push up on my toes and the hand on my hip moves around to my back. Our bodies are pressed up against one another, and I can’t feel the same raw power as before, when his muscles were shifting against me, but I still know it’s there in the solidness of him.
He continues, “You don’t have to—"
I don’t let him finish. I press my lips against his because I don’t want to hear him keep rationalizing this, like it’s something that needs talked into being nothing. I don’t want nothing, I want this: The way his lips give against my own, reluctantly pressing back, and the way it’s suddenly not so reluctant anymore. It’s soft and surging, the way he pinches my bottom lip between his own, face tilting to get closer.
His hand cups my cheek, fingers weaving into the hair behind my ear, and he pulls me closer, like… like maybe he wants more. Like maybe he’s getting more out of this than just some favor to a dumb girl. Like maybe when his mouth parts, his wet tongue slipping between my lips, it’s because he likes doing this.
My stomach bottoms out and my fingers curl into his shirt, looking for something to hold onto as I try to mirror his movements, tongue meeting his. The kiss is wet, and warm. He tastes like air and something ripe and alive, and when he sucks a soft retreat, only to dip back into my mouth, my chest feels like it might cave in.
My breath hitches and he stills.
He pulls away gently, his hands slowly dipping back into his pockets as he steps away. The light from the houses reflects off his lips, shiny with our kiss.
I’ve gone from boiling to tepid, from the warmth of his body next to mine, to standing awkwardly alone in the woods.
“That was—” I start, because someone has to say something, and from the shell-shocked look on his face, the expression that no doubt precedes deep and sudden regret, he is at a loss for words. “Okay.”
His eyebrow shoots up. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat, giving my lips a quick suck. “That was… okay. Good. Done. Mission accomplished.”
Oh my god, Vandy, shut the fuck up.
I give him a double thumbs-up.
And because things couldn’t get worse… he slowly, reluctantly, gives me a double thumbs-up in return.
“I’m just going to go in now. You should probably wait—”
“A few minutes. Yeah, I agree.” That same dumbfounded expression is on his face and wow, that is not the look you want a guy to give you after you jumped him in the woods. Jesus.
I take off after that, hobbling down the hill as fast as my leg will take me. I don’t look back until I’m all the way at the back porch, hand on the doorknob. I can barely see him up on the hill, but I know he’s there, watching to make sure I get in the house, probably mentally scrubbing what had to be the worst kiss of his life out of his mind.
“It’s better when you can feel the wind whipping around, you know?”
I look down at his hand on the gearshift, confident and sure. I think about what it would feel like on my hip. The pressure of his thumb against my skin. I look down, feeling a flicker of a memory, then look back up at his face.
Fourteen-year-old Reyn is gone. A more mature, more handsome boy sits next to me. But boy isn’t exactly the right word. Not for the stubble on his chin, or the strong muscles that line his forearm as he shifts from third to fourth gear. This is a man.