Page 33 of The Edge of Summer
“You’re too hard on yourself,” I say. “You wanted constructive criticism. There it is.”
Without meaning to, I’ve drawn closer. This woman is like a goddamn lighthouse calling me home. The chill of the refrigerator has nothing on the heat coursing through my veins.
“I’m hard on myself,” she mocks. Her eyes narrow. “That’swhy you don’t like me?”
I sigh. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
This is when I do something stupid. Stupider than the things I’ve already done. I let the words slip that I’ve been doing everything in my power to keep in. “I don’t like that you make me feel.”
“Feel what?”
I don’t answer at first because the truth is, I don’t know. Attraction, yes. That’s painfully obvious in the way that mybody begs to be near her. But it’s something else, too. Like parts of me—the ones that are a little jaded; a little broken—recognize those same parts in her. Like calls to like, and in a lot of ways, Delilah and I are the same.
“Things I haven’t felt in a long goddamn time.”
As the weight of that admission settles between us, Delilah takes a step closer to me. It seems I’m not the only one affected by the magnetic pull between us.
“You want to know what I do hate?” I ask. My voice is low.
Delilah’s tongue darts out, licking her lips. My eyes can’t help but fall at the action. “A lot of things, I’m sure.”
My answering grin is wicked. “Many things, yes,” I agree. “But most of all, I hate that I can’t get you out of my head.”
At this point, all sense has gone out of my brain. Truthfully, I’m not sure it ever existed when it comes to Delilah. The tether of my restraint snaps like a frayed rope. In one fell swoop, I have her sitting on a stack of crates, her thighs parted so I can slot myself into the space. I relish the gasp that leaves her.
“What are you saying?” she asks.
“I’m saying, Delilah—” My hand finds her dark ponytail, and I wind it around my fist. I test it by tugging slightly, eliciting another gasp. “That against my better judgment, you have tattooed yourself on all my senses. So all I want to touch isyou.” My other hand curls over one of her thighs. “All I can see isyou.” I let my eyes rove her body. “Taste.” At this, I lean in. I nip the lobe of her ear, chasing it with my tongue. “Smell.” I inhale deeply, my lungs expanding with whatever floral perfume she wears, but also somethinguniquelyher.
“You forgot one.” Her voice is breathy.
I release her ponytail, letting my fingers trail along the column of her throat. She tips her head slightly, giving me better access.
“Your voice. It haunts me,” I admit.
“You know whatIhate?” she asks. I meet her gaze. It swirls with want, just as my own. “I hate that you think you have any right to know me. That your reasons are more important than mine. But you don’t have a right to my pain.”
It is the briefest glimpse—a quick glance through a closing door—but I see everything she hides behind that mask of hers. She paints herself like a porcelain doll never meant to be played with, but beneath the surface, cracks are beginning to form. Have been for a while, if I had to guess. So I do the only thing I can: I swallow that pain whole.
My hand finds Delilah’s throat. As I apply delicate pressure, I haul her mouth to mine. We clash like two opposing sides of a battle that are both determined to win. My palm on her thigh is punishing in its grip, but she just tightens her legs around my hips in response.
My veins hum with electricity, a steady current passing between us. When my tongue slides against hers, I feel a shock to my system, like I’ve been electrocuted. I didn’t realize just how much my body had been craving Delilah until the feel of her was imprinted on my lips. The flavour of her cherry lip balm will linger for days.
After Kristina, I didn’t let myself indulge in anyone. But one taste of Delilah and I know exactly what I’ve been missing out on.
When she pulls back, her lips are already swollen. Shelooks at me. Looksintome. And then she surges forward, fisting the front of my shirt to bring my mouth back to hers. My palm slips further up her thigh, my fingers dipping beneath the hem of those denim shorts I hate to love so much. She responds in kind, hooking her finger through one of my belt loops and urging me closer.
The hand that was once at her throat now trails over her shoulder and down her arm. Goosebumps settle on her skin in its wake. I find the hem of her shirt and slip my palm beneath, curving around her back. Her skin is smooth beneath mine.
Kissing Delilah is nothing like I thought it would be. Stupidly, I assumed that once I had a taste, that would be enough to sate me. But as her tongue tangles with mine once again, it is becoming increasingly apparent that isn’t the case. I want to savour her. More than that, I want to slip my hand inside those shorts and feel her.
Behind us, the refrigerator door swings open. My lips break from Delilah’s, and I look over my shoulder to find the line cook staring at us, open-mouthed. It was easy to forget where we were when I had Delilah all to myself, but now everything comes crashing back. Not only are we far from alone, but we’re also supposed to be running the bar.
A distraction. This woman is a goddamn distraction. She makes me feel reckless and I can’t afford that. I take one step back and then another, putting distance between us. Maybe the farther I get, the easier it will be. I faintly register the door closing again, our audience now gone.
Delilah, undeterred, pats my chest as she slides off the stack of crates. “Back to work, Chief,” shesays in a normal tone. As if what just happened had no effect on her. Then she looks pointedly at my crotch. “Feel free to take a minute.”
