Page 39

“Try again?” he encourages, angling his head.

“It…it was spur-of-the-moment,” I say sharply. “You made me feel not horrible, so I wanted to thank you.”

“By slamming your face against my face.”

“It was an accident!”

“Meaning I still haven’t been thanked,” he says, drawling his voice in this way that quickens my already-panicked heartbeat. “I’m offering you the chance to make up for it. Because I’m a gentleman. And a beacon of integrity, or whatever you said.”

I can’t think of a witty response. His proximity and lack of clothing make it difficult for me to keep my grip on my irritation, plus the fact that I probably have no right, after everything I’ve put him through today. He didn’t have to come here. Why am I putting up a fight? I tried taking him by surprise with a kiss, and now that he’s literally consenting, I suddenly can’t do it?

The answer, of course, is that I’m just being stubborn and cranky because I screwed up, and he thinks it’s funny.

“If…if I mess up again, do you promise not to laugh?” I ask.

Aaron blinks in surprise at my sudden shift. His face warms with happiness, and his hands slide down the wall until they’re nestled on my shoulders. He presses inward, rooting them gently along the sides of my neck so he can use his thumbs to tilt my chin up, guiding me closer. “I promise,” he whispers.

My pulse must be ramming against his palms. My instincts whine and kick at my subconscious—somewhere deep within me, I know I’ll regret this.

But he’s here.

So call me every time. I’ll find a way to you. Always.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

I tilt my face, having learned from my mistake. His lips twitch upward at my caution, and he leans his forehead against mine, the edge of his bandanna brushing my hairline, his eyes falling shut and freeing me from the cool steadiness of his gaze. I can hardly think straight, the position of his hands under my jaw overwhelming. The light hairs of his body brush up against my bare midsection, sending my senses reeling.

I don’t know what to do with my hands other than let them dangle. If I touch him, I might jostle the towel free from around his waist, or the feeling of his damp, smooth skin might make me lose all sense of reason. The sides of our noses are brushing, both still red from the collision.

I nudge my lips against Aaron’s slender pink ones, then draw back.

Immediately, I want to evaporate. His forehead is weighing against mine, and his breath is strained and slow, like he’s consciously trying to control it. He’s not dropping his palms—it’s like he’s waiting for the kiss I just gave him.

“Aaron?” I say.

“Again,” he breathes, or rather pleads. He’s broken into a tremble, like he’s on the brink of losing himself.

I press my lips to his a second time, then linger, my eyes falling shut. His right hand slides up along the back of my neck, cradling the weight of my head and tugging me deeper into the kiss.

Something is different. His mouth is moving, his lips parting, nudging mine to do the same. I try to register what I should be doing, but I’m distracted by his other hand, which grazes the edge of my abdomen before rooting itself in the scoop of my waist.

He yanks suddenly, slamming our bodies together.

“Heh?” I say, and the moment my mouth opens, Aaron swallows me in a deep, ravenous kiss that sends warmth exploding through my limbs. My hands slip up between our slick midsections, flattening out against his chest, but I can’t manage the energy to push. Or maybe I don’t want to.

No, I should.

But the hand cupping my head pulls, angling me farther back, and every protesting thought I have dissolves into useless puddles. His other palm presses up from my waist, carving divots into my rib cage as he scratches a path to my chest, to the jut of my collarbone. His touch leaves behind a violent eruption of goose bumps, and I accidentally sigh shakily into his mouth.

It’s too intense. I never got to prepare for something as desperate and consuming as this. My whole body is on fire, made worse when his touch wanders again, clawing a trail down my back, his middle fingertip digging into my spine. The feeling instinctively arches me into him, and though I haven’t uttered a command, my arms move of their own volition, slinking around his neck, curling in, and locking tight. Like they know they belong there, even if I don’t.

It happens then. Another memory in the form of a frustratingly quick flash. My back is pressed against this wall, and my breaths are concerningly short, my lips swollen, my arms tied behind his neck. The swimsuit is gone. So is his towel. I feel all of him pressed up against my frame.

But the memory passes, and the towel and swimsuit are back in place, and some small, twisted part of me wishes they’d disappear.

“B-breathe,” I choke out, disgusted by my own sudden, inexplicable wants, and I tear my face sideways, gasping for air, eyes stinging from low oxygen. “I can’t…This is a tenth-date kind of thing…”

Aaron laughs. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks, his hands sliding to my hips.