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Her eyes drop to my lips—quickly like she didn't mean for it to happen. "And what if I said no? I don't want it to be over."

My fingers dig so far into the metal they start to throb. Every pulse echoing through my hand as my chest tightens, refusing to relax.

Lenny glances up, meeting my gaze, and my stomach twists. She feels it too.

"Then it wouldn't be," I mutter.

She looks at my mouth again, deliberately this time—lingering long enough for me to notice. Without lifting her eyes, she nods slowly.

My heart hammers, the pulse drumming in my ears. I wrap my free hand around her waist, my fingers brushing the small of her back.

Lenny's breath hitches, and when I finally twist the knob, we fall into my room.

22

Lenny

Ididn't come here for this.

Sure, that one over-spiked cider Mrs. Joplin poured definitely had me thinking about the park and Luxe and the clubhouse with him. But once the dull buzz wore off, about ten seconds into my mother's demonstration on exactly how to top a drink with whipped cream, I only thought about Jace—his lips and chest and the way his forearms flex when he slides his hand into my hair—for a very normal amount of time.

But here we are.

By the time I'm fully inside his bedroom, my mouth is on his and his hands are on me, and it's hard to tell where one of us ends and the other begins. We're a tangled mess of limbs and tongues, and it's urgent. Greedy. Like we've been starving for each other for too long.

Because we have.

Jace tugs on my hair to deepen our kiss, his other hand dragging from my throat down my chest. He walks us backwards, guiding me toward what I assume is the bed I haven't actually seen yet.

When my calves hit the mattress, both of us stop, and he wipes his thumb across my lips. "Is this okay?" he asks, his voice nearly breathless.

I nod, pressing my mouth to his again to seal my answer.

Jace melts into me, then pulls away, taking a half step back and dragging his palm down his face.

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head slowly as he looks me up and down.

"Do you really want this?" he asks, moving closer again. He swipes his knuckles past my cheek. "Even though you're leaving?"

"Yes," I say. "I want this. Especially because I'm leaving."

He blinks once slowly, swallowing hard. "You want me to touch you," Jace says—it's not a question.

"Yes," I murmur.

He blows a steady breath through his lips.

Anxiety replaces the need low below my belly button. "Do you?" I ask. "Want to touch me?"

Jace holds my face in both hands, his brow creased as he searches my eyes. "For so long," he admits.

My whole body heats.

"I used to hate myself for it," he continues, gaze steady. He trails his fingertips over my forehead, brushing a stray hair back into place. "That I couldn't forget about you in my bed."

My eyes drop to the floor.