Page 17 of The Best Kind of Forever
“What?”
He pushes his empty plate away from him, which I swore was just filled to the brim with food. His Adam’s apple slides in his throat. “I—never mind.”
The second I’m done with my food, Hayes is up and out of his seat, and in two quick strides, he’s standing right next to me. The sight of him hits me like a freight train, and it urges me up from my chair.
His calloused hand ghosts over the contour of my cheek. “Can I kiss you?”
I’m so close to him that I can see the disproportionate reflection of myself in his pupils, can smell the sweet aftertaste of chocolate on his breath, can feel the heat radiating off his body in tidal waves.
His eyes travel over my lips, conduits of anxiety zinging through every inch of me. I accept his invitation with a wordless confirmation, rising to my tiptoes and twining my arms behind his neck, slowly leaning in. I wait for him, anticipate him, and I thank my adrenaline for keeping me interlocked in his grasp.
A melting pot of colors breaks through me when our lips acquaint themselves with each other, and I inhale him like the weight of the world has suddenly lifted off my shoulders. He tastes like a warm afternoon, and I’m afraid that if I risk a glance away, he’ll fade into the backdrop of my imagination.
I want to hold him closer; I want to deepen the kiss. His tongue prods at the seam of my lips, requesting passage, and I let him slip deeper into my mouth, allowing him complete access to the very threads of my DNA.
His hand snakes around my throat, applying the slightest pressure on either side of my windpipe, and my breath pinches. I delve my fingers into his back, scraping my nails through the soft material of his shirt. My peaked nipples brush against his chest as viscous arousal saturates my panties.
A growl rumbles in the back of his throat, and he clamps his hands down on my waist, pulling me into him. I flaunt my clavicle to him, mewling when his lips leech on to the bone. He pulls the thin skin between his teeth, sucking, gnawing, then soothing the purpling bite mark with a lap of his tongue.
Tiny aftershocks quiver through my body from the blast of his touch. “I…want…”
“What do you want, Aeris?” Hayes teases, stroking his hand up my stomach, lingering just below my tits. The bass of his voice throws accelerant on the fire of lust blazing through me.
“I—”
I’m interrupted by the blaring ring of Hayes’ phone.
He lets it go for a few rings, then picks it up with a soft groan, disengaging himself from our entanglement.
I fight off a frown, willing the warmth in my groin to subside.
Holy shit. Why did I let him kiss me? This is going to end badly, I just know it. My number one rule is to never let anyone in. And what’s the first thing I do? I let someone in.
Hayes looks agitated as he listens to the voice on the other side of the speaker, and his reply is brusque. “Okay, I’m on my way.”
Once he hangs up, regret simmers in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I have to get to pr—I have to go.”
I gnash my teeth together. “It’s okay. I appreciate you making breakfast,” I tell him.
“Do you have your phone on you?”
I slip the device from the back pocket of my sweatpants, unlocking it and handing it to him.
His fingers work at lightning speed, and when he hands it back to me, his contact information is broadcasted across the screen. “Call me, okay?”
The corners of my mouth hook up into a smile. “Okay.”
His lips make one last pass at my cheek, and then he’s out the door, headed to God knows where. I don’t know if I’ll see him again. When people leave, they usually don’t come back. That’s something I’ve come to accept—that people will leave no matter how hard you beg them to stay.
HOCKEY? I HARDLY KNOW HER
HAYES
Itry my best to ignore the warning signs of a colossal headache, but pain has already claimed its home behind my eyes. Anger is a quick-acting agent inside of me, and it short-circuits every nerve inside of my body.
My game is off today, and Coach can tell. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed during breakfast. This was the first practice I’ve ever been late for.
“Hollings, what the hell is going on with you?” Coach barks, his tone laden with aggravation.
