Page 58 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“Don’t go,” I rush out, taken aback by the foul flavor of desperation on my tongue. “Please don’t leave.”
Finally, after a full minute, Lila’s eyes find mine, ice blue surrounded by strokes of eyeliner that give that irreplicable color a stark pop. I’m enamored by her, falling into deep pools that I have no intention of ever getting out of.
“Thanks…for the congratulations. But I’m pretty sure I should be thankingyou.”
She bristles. “Me?”
I lean back against my cubby, careful not to manspread too much and flash everything below the belt. “Yeah. If you didn’t give me an incentive, I wouldn’t have scored nearly as many goals as I did tonight.”
Lila snorts, then immediately covers her nose with her hands. I love the fact that she snorts when she laughs. Granted, most of the time when she’s laughing, she’s laughingatme instead ofwithme, but I digress. It’s music to my ears all the same. An airy melody that hovers somewhere between raspy and rumbly, like it’s caught between the top of her chest and the base of her throat. It’s the only lullaby that has the ability to soothe me to sleep, to quiet all my thoughts, to calm the inner turmoil that plagues me day in and day out.
Our proximity isn’t necessarily close, but I can smell the jasmine perfume scenting the air around her, and all I want to do is hold her close and lose myself in her touch. The physical distance—albeit minimal—hurts like the peeling of a day-old tattoo.
She chews the tissue of her inner cheek. “You really did all of that just to get a few kisses?”
“Of course I did,” I answer with certainty, my heart trilling bass heavy in my chest, so loud I’m afraid she can hear it. It surprises me she doesn’t realize I would go to the ends of the earth if she asked me to. A few measly goals for an everlasting kiss from the girl who’s got me head-over-motherfucking-heels? That’s not even a fair trade.
She goes deathly quiet, suddenly interested in the toes of her black, heeled boots. It’s clear this is all still hard for her—not that I thought she’d just forgive my betrayal after a week.
Considering the silence that follows, I decide to (regretfully)take it upon myself to lighten the mood, hoping that I can salvage this relationship before losing it to the deep end for eternity. “I’m guessing you’re not here for lip-related reasons?”
That piques her attention. I’m expecting a sharp-witted response from her—maybe a creative insult thrown in for some flair—but something else precedes that sassy snap of her tongue, something foreign that curls in her throat and produces a dulcet, lustful tone. Her gaze rakes over me achingly slowly, lingering on the ridges of my abs before drifting up to my eyes.
“You can’t talk about freaky lip stuff when you’re”—she gestures to my half-naked state, doing a terrible job of pretending like she isn’t hot and bothered by this whole situation—“looking likethat.”
“Like what?”
“Bristol.”
I stand up from my seat and feel my towel slip just the slightest bit, now one indecent shuffle away from falling completely. Lila’s salacious stare follows the swell of my V-line, although she’s polite enough not to dip to my now-hardening cock.
“Like what, Lila?” I press, bridging the distance between us, so close that I now hover over her from a few inches away. That pillowy landing platform of her lower lip beguiles me to steal a taste.
Her neck tenses, serrated breaths petering out of her. It’s taking every ounce of restraint not to caress her face, not to lightly touch her arm, not to fuckingkissaway her hesitation. Her chest inflates, and the longer I spend staring at her, the more my equilibrium spins. Jesus, the way she’s looking at me right now evokes leaden pressure to drop in my belly. The good thing about this still-wet look is that sweat is indistinguishable from leftover shower water.
A blush, now distinctly evident given our proximity,whispers over her cheeks. “Like…some kind of sex god,” she mutters beneath her breath, too embarrassed to say it at full volume.
But I hear it. I hear it loud and clear.
“Sex god, huh?” I tease, stretching my arms over my head and making sure she gets a good, long look at my abs. And she does. She spends a full minute ogling my stomach.
“You’re not playing fair,” she whines, and that whine itself is enough to get more blood rushing to my hungry cock.
“I’mnot playing fair? You’re the one who showed up to the game inmyjersey.”
“Because we’re together!”
Those words demolish any common sense I had left rattling around in my noggin, and surprisingly, desire is now runner-up to the hope crowning in my heart. I know she probably didn’t mean it like that, but fuck, it sounds good to hear.
Together.A concept I never thought possible after the death of Summit, and now a reality that I strive to make come true.
Once she registers what she just said, she shrinks immediately. “I-I meant not…togethertogether. This is all fake,” she stammers.
Hating even aninchof distance between us, I lean down, tip her chin up with my forefinger, and whisper against her mouth, “Does thisfeelfake?”
I don’t apply pressure. I don’t worm my way in. I stay where I am, tossing the ball in her court for once, even as every cell in my body shouts at how incredibly idiotic I’m being.
She gasps, her lips parting instinctively, and I can feel the air around us catch on fire. She’s holding back. She’s holding back, and all I want to do is say “fuck it” and snap that taut string of skepticism in half with my bare hands.
