Page 58 of Good Graces

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

She swallows, her gaze rising to meet mine.

I reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flick to my mouth, but I don’t move to kiss her. Not yet. I let my fingers drift down instead, brushing her jaw, skimming the side of her throat, tracing the gentle dip of her collarbone. Her breath hitches, her body stills, and her eyes go soft and dark all at once.

“You always do that,” she whispers.

“Do what?”

“Get in my head. Touch me like . . .” She hesitates, like saying it aloud might crack something open. “Like you’re memorizing me.”

I smile, low and quiet. “Maybe I am.”

I’ve been memorizing her all summer—every freckle scattered across her shoulder, the faint scar on her thumb, the curve of her spine when she leans over the pool rail. The sound she makes when she laughs too hard. The way she looks at me when she’s trying not to.

We’ve spent weeks like this—kissing until we’re dizzy, pressing into each other behind storage sheds and late-night corners, her hands in my hair, mine under her shirt. Always skimming the edge but never falling over it.

And God, I want her. Not just her body. All of it. Her fire, her bite, the mess she tries to hide and the softness she doesn’t know how to offer.

But more than anything, I want this.

This moment.

This closeness.

This is my chance to mean something irreplaceable to her before the summer ends.

My hand drifts lower, tracing the thin strap of her tank top where it curves against her shoulder. She exhales, breath shaky, and her fingers hook into the belt loops of my jeans like she needs something to ground her.

Then she moves—just enough to close the space between us, her lips brushing mine, soft and warm with the faint taste of Dr Pepper. It’s not a desperate kiss. Not rushed or messy. It’s slow and unhurried, the kind that feels like a conversation.

Her fingers slide into my hair, nails grazing my scalp, and I groan low in my throat. My hand slips under the hem of her shirt to find the bare skin of her waist.

She’s warm everywhere. In her breath. In her skin. In the way she leans into me like she was always meant to fit there. My hand slides higher over her ribs, fingertips brushing the edge of her bra.

Quinn makes a soft, breathy sound against my mouth, something caught between a sigh and a whimper, and it damn near undoes me.

I pull back, just barely, just enough to see her face. My breathing is rough, uneven. “You okay?”

She swallows, blinking like I’ve knocked something loose in her head. “Yeah,” she says, voice shaky.

I smile and run my thumb over her bottom lip. “You sure?”

Her eyes flick to my mouth again. “Yeah, but I might die if you don’t kiss me right now.”

I laugh, low and rough, and kiss her again—deeper this time, like I’m trying to pour every unspoken thing straight into her mouth.

She pulls me closer, one thigh sliding between mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders as my hand slips down her side, fingers curling around the back of her thigh. Her breath grows ragged. Her mouth softens, slows.

I’m losing myself in her. In the weight of her body, the heat of her skin, the soft sounds she keeps giving me like secrets. She shifts halfway on top of me, her fingers tangled in my shirt.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

I drag my thumb down her side, following the curve of her waist. “Quinn,” I murmur.

“Mmm?”

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