Perhaps he’s also contemplating why he’s doing this. Derek must have mentioned something about Zach bringing his student to volunteer. Though it would only make sense to reach out to students with a background in social work or psychology to volunteer for such an event, they didn’t seem too happy to see me there. At least, not at first.
It may have been worse if other students had been there, though. They would have seen us arrive together. They would have seen how we interact with one another, how I stare after him like a lost puppy.
We’re not being very discreet. Though what have we really even done? Our one moment of weakness, Zach wrote off as a mistake. Or tried to. The only reason he never actually came out and said it was because I cut him off. I didn’t want to hear him say it. That all of this is a mistake.
Because it is.
“This is it?” he asks, peering up at the multi-level apartment complex I call home.
“Yep. Home sweet home.”
Lyndsey took me to work this morning, before continuing on into the city. She mentioned something about an all-day spa retreat before her smoking hot date tonight. She’s been after this guy for a month now. So I don’t expect her home at any point tonight.
“I’ll walk you up.”
Panic seizes me.
What do I do? What is the protocol for something like this? This isn’t officially a date, so there’s no need to worry about the whole do-I-kiss-him-or-don’t-I dilemma. Besides, we’ve already kissed. Then quickly determined that was a horrible idea.
So, no. There’s nothing to worry about. Maybe a quick hug to say “thank you”.
How about you justsay“thank you” instead? Keep your hands to yourself. You don’t need these kinds of distractions.
“I had fun, tonight. Thank you for inviting me.” I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds weak, raspy.
You sound like a singer in a Jazz nightclub.
“No problem. Derek and Marianne thought you were great. They said you can come back whenever you want.”
Doubtful. Marianne all but told me to stay away.
I force a smile anyway. “Thanks, but I should probably focus on my schoolwork for a little while.”
“Right.”
He looks disappointed.
Oh, God. Am I supposed to say something else? I have no idea what I’m doing, only that I’m floundering terribly at doing it. His eyes continue holding mine, locked in a secret exchange of words I can’t decipher. If I were a trained veteran at dating, or whatever this is, like Lyndsey, this wouldn’t be a problem. But I’ve never so much as had a man touch me. And the last kiss I’d experienced before this week came from my next-door neighbor on prom night.
The awkwardness stretches between us, and I choose to quell the tension by extending my hand.
Yeah. Because that’s what every man wants. A handshake.
We agreed to keep things platonic. We agreed to ignore this building passion between us. Or at least, that’s where I thought we were. This may be no more than a diversion to him. For me, however, it’s everything I have never experienced before.
“Well, goodnight,” I say, emphasizing the reason for my outstretched hand.
He claims it tenderly, his eyes still intently locked on mine. Warmth spreads to my cheeks. When he looks at me like that, I want so desperately to forget everything that’s holding me back.
I turn toward the door, sliding my hand from Zach’s grip. He tightens his hold and tugs me back against him. I collapse against him, all breath fleeing my lungs when I realize how close I am to him again. He doesn’t say anything. Rather, he seems as surprised by what’s just happened as I am. I raise my head up toward him, trying to get a better view of his face. Trying to understand what we’re doing here in each other’s arms.
My hands climb up his chest. His heartbeat taps beneath my fingertips like a thousand wild horses galloping. My own pulse flutters wildly, whispering a plea to put it out of its misery once and for all. How long must this waiting go on?
He inclines his head, meeting me part of the way. But I’m impatient. I raise myself up onto my tiptoes, lock my hands around his neck and drag his lips down onto mine.
This time, the kiss is different. This is no soft, delicate exchange of blooming desire. His kiss is ravenous, hungry. His tongue slips past the seam of my lips, encircling mine, guiding me in a glorious plunder that leaves both of us breathless. He tips my head back, his fingers gliding down my throat as his tongue moves in tantalizing motions.
The throbbing between my thighs pulses with every stroke of his tongue. I press my legs together, hoping to ease the pressure building there. It doesn’t work. The tingling spreads into my stomach, and a stream of electric pleasure glides across my body. I need him to touch me, taste me, anything to ease the aching.