Page 23 of The First Kind of Love
“Oh,” is all I say.
Shiloh scoots the tiniest bit closer to me—close enough for our knees to bump—and I catch a whiff of that intoxicating vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh dough combination that holds my every thought hostage.
Oh, God. Is she gonna kiss me? She looks like she’s gonna kiss me. What do I do? I’m panicking. HELP!
Relax, Fulton. It’s just a kiss. You just…touch lips. It’s not hard.
Speaking of hard, I think, um, I think there’s something happening downstairs, and in a second or two, it’s going to be a helluva lot more noticeable. I should’ve never agreed to a date. Oh, this is bad. This is so bad. What if she hates the kiss? What if she gets her hopes up, only to be disappointed in the end? I’d worry about not being able to perform, but Iobviouslydon’t have that problem right now.
Shiloh unexpectedly grabs my hand, and I know getting closer to her should activate my fight or flight response, butthat’s the last thing that happens. Everything slows down, if only for a second—time, my heart, my spiral of self-doom.
“Can I kiss you, Fulton?”
Five words. Five words I never expected to hear from any girl, let alone Shiloh.
I don’t think I entirely comprehend the weight of her question before nodding instinctively. And then, as I watch her lean in, I close my eyes, and her lips brush against mine in a rush of dopamine and sensational, color-changing fireworks, flooding my body with a deluge of renewed liveliness that I can feel tingle in the soles of my feet.
My head goes woozy, butterflies swarm in my belly, and my heart’s broken free of my control. There’s no tongue—thank God, because that’s beyond my expertise (obviously)—but the kiss is nowhere near chaste. I don’t really know what to do with my hands, so I stupidly keep them by my sides as Shiloh caresses my cheek, deepening the press of her mouth on mine with an urgency that’s inexplicably attractive.
When we eventually break away, I’m wide-eyed and dumbfounded, so detached from my body that I’m frozen to the sofa with a stiffy that I couldn’t hide if I wanted to.
“Shi…” I breathe, unsure why I’m even saying her name in the first place.
To urge her to stop? To keep going?
But my question is answered for me when she sweeps me up in another kiss—this one more calculated, more natural, a dance that we’ve just conquered. It’s a marrying of lips that precedes the first dart of a tongue to test the waters, and like a dog, I follow her every move with undying devotion, finally stockpiling the courage to skirt my hands up the length of her sides.
Her breasts are flattened against my chest, and instead of her hand staying innocently on my cheek, it migrates to my hair, her nimble fingers tethering around the strands.
God, this feels so fucking good. Shetastesso fucking good. I never knew a kiss could be this…life-changing. I don’t want it to stop. I need more. Every emotion and physical feeling in my body are fighting to come out on top—a fast heart rate melding into an equally fast pulse, the fluttering in my gut devolving into this buzzing ball of anticipation.
And as I feel her body recline to give me more room—and to give my lips a better vantage point on her throat—something strange squeezes through my stomach, too harsh to be those aforementioned butterflies flapping around.
I can feel my insides cramping, but it pales in comparison to the feel of Shiloh’s tongue sliding over mine. While she readjusts her position, I follow suit and lean forward on my hands and knees, only to find that movingat allwas a terrible idea that will lead to the worst consequence imaginable.
Whatever nervousness or indigestion that was going on manifests in a bout of pressure that practically sucks my stomach in on itself, and my pain would’ve gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for the seismic growl that pierces the air between us.
Shiloh pulls away with a frown, her eyes scanning the expanse of my belly. “I’m sorry. I’m such a bad host. I didn’t know you were still hungry. Let me make you another bowl?—”
She shimmies out from underneath me to get up, but I grab her wrist before she can go anywhere, and I slouch back against the couch cushions.
“It’s not. That’s not—I’m fine,” I lie, bearing an instant onslaught from whatever gods above are punishing me. I have no idea why my intestines are dead set on tying themselves into a constrictor knot, but they’re doing so with a disturbing amount of ease.
Concern mars Shiloh’s expression. “Something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you wincing in pain?”
“I’m not wincing in pain. This is…just my natural resting face.” I breathe through the waxing ache in my lower abdomen, but on the inside, I’m curling up in a fetal position and pleading with a higher power to grant me relief.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why is my body betraying me like this? I was kissing a girl! Things were good!
But no matter what I say or how I say it, convincing Shiloh to back down is about as implausible as finding some kind of reprieve in the next minute. The quiet ambience of the night was comforting at first, but now there’s nothing to cover up the intermittent gurgles emanating from my stomach.
She narrows her eyes. “Fulton.”
I roll mine. “Shiloh.”
