Page 67 of Drawn Together
“No, you’re not.”
“How could you possibly know?”
“Just trust me, I know.”
“Okay, let’s say, hypothetically, someone is a bad kisser. Could he or she, I don’t know, somehow fix it?”
“Flora, why do you think you’re a bad kisser?”
“I’m too…” I search for the right word. “Enthusiastic.”
Fletcher pinches the bridge of his nose before letting out a long sigh and sticking his hands back under his plaid blanket. “If you’re not enthusiastic, then it’s not right.”
“I think maybe it’s that I was the only one enthusiastic about it.”
“Then that’s not on you.”
“But I—”
“Let’s watch the movie, alright? I will bet you a hundred dollars you’re not a bad kisser.” He hands me his hot chocolate,like it will make me feel better—it unfortunately does the trick. “I promise you are not the problem.”
I nod. “Okay.”
And I spend the entire rest of the movie thinking just how wrong he is.
“So, you liked Westley then.”
“I liked hearing about how much you like Westley, sure.”
“I said it maybe twice.”
“Yeah, but you gasped every time he came up in a scene and started clawing at my chair when he was shirtless.”
With a laugh, I feel the autumn evening chill settling deep within me as we round the corner to our shared street, making me grateful once more that I brought the blankets.
“Told you I don’t have bad taste.”
“He’s certainly an upgrade from the alien you made me read.”
“Ugh, a classic.”
He snorts and pushes my hair behind my ear. “Night, Flora.”
I go up one brick step, my fingers lightly trailing the railing beside me, cheeks warm and entirely thankful for the moonlit night hiding my blush.
“Night, Fletcher.”
I am about to go up another step, but from one moment to the next—like lightning hitting the ground in a crack—he’s there. Fingers curling around my arm, I’m pulled back to face the street. Suddenly, there are hands on either side of my face, thumbs digging in my jaw, and his mouth on mine.
It’s bruising, his soft lips pushing and pulling, finding a rhythm that I follow along with every motion. We fit perfectly. I’ve only ever been used to Austin's lips. Thin and…boney? But Fletcher’s are thick and soft, and there’s just so much more of him for me to learn. Fabric brushes against my fingers, I realize my hands are on his stomach, pulling at his sweatshirt as if tosay off. With one hand on my face and the other up my spine he moves me, angles me, molds me into what he needs, and I am nothing but clay against him.
His hard thumb presses into my jaw, like he’s trying to find the right button to open me up, and I do so, just for him. My bottom lip drops, and he takes the opportunity to pull it into his mouth before pressing needy kisses everywhere. The corner of my mouth. Just above my lip. My chin. My jaw. Below my ear. He is everywhere all at once, but I only want his lips against mine right now. I tug at him, pulling him down and going on the tips of my toes to meet him halfway, our lips finding each other again.
A sob, thick and desperate, claws its way out of me as Fletcher breaks the kiss, the sound swallowed by the sudden silence. Whimpers bubble up when he pulls back just enough to tear off his glasses with what almost feels like anger. I’m blessed with a fleeting view of his bare eyes—red-rimmed and intense—amplifying the raw ache in my chest, before he hauls me back into him, his grip around my waist an urgent vice.
Fletcher’s tongue slides in, a firm and tender invasion. A soft, mewling plea escapes my lips, the sound barely audible. Just for us. Just enough to fuel his fire. A guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he crushes me closer. "Yes," he breathes in my ear, the tip of his glasses digging in my waist.
“Fletcher.” I don’t have anything to follow up, just…him. Everything in me calls for him. His touch, his taste, his sounds, his scent. Him, him, him.
